


Up The Line

by tabulaxrasa



Series: World War I AU [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Crossover, Multi, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-13
Updated: 2009-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabulaxrasa/pseuds/tabulaxrasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are worse things than death. I've seen them." First World War AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up The Line

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stevie for last-minute beta of heroic proportions. Written for Bandom Big Bang 2009: Amazing fanart by desticex [here](http://tabula-x-rasa.livejournal.com/350779.html). Fanmix post [here](http://tabula-x-rasa.livejournal.com/351106.html).
> 
> There is also a post on my sources [here,](http://tabula-x-rasa.livejournal.com/364299.html) because people asked.

If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,  
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,  
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.  
—Siegfried Sassoon, _Base Details_

 

August 6, 1918

Spencer had told them all to rest and Brendon was trying to obey, really he was. No one ever actually slept on the front lines, just rested, which was basically shutting your eyes and sitting still and zoning out, and when you started moving again it was like waking up, so resting was almost sleeping, really.

It was good for you, and Brendon tried to do things that were good for him, and also tried to do what Spencer and Ryan told him to, but he just couldn't rest right now. It wasn't that he was muddy and cold and wet, because he was muddy and cold and wet all the time. That was nothing. He had Jon to lay on, after all, and Jon was really excellent to lay on. Part of the problem was that they weren't in trenches, they were in a shell crater in No Man's Land. That was bad. The other problem Brendon was having in particular right now was that on the other side of the crater, Spencer was holding Ryan's hand and slowly bleeding to death.

Brendon just couldn't bring himself to close his eyes and zone out, because when he woke up Spencer might be gone. Jon and Ryan weren't resting either, so Brendon was totally justified. Spencer wasn't even technically in charge of them, Ryan was, but Spencer pretty much bossed them all anyway, even Ryan. Especially Ryan. Brendon had even seen Spencer boss Wentz once, and Wentz was their Captain, and Spencer wasn't even supposed to speak to him directly.

"Hey," Jon whispered in Brendon's ear. Brendon snuggled in closer under Jon's arm. But when Brendon looked up, Jon was still staring at Spencer, just like he had been since even before Spencer had grudgingly admitted he'd been shot. Jon had known something was wrong right away, even before Ryan.

Brendon wished he and Jon could move to the other side of the crater so they could all pile together like they usually did for resting, but there wasn't room and Spencer couldn't be crushed.

"It'll work out, right?" Brendon whispered. "Someone'll find us?" And maybe his voice broke a little bit.

Jon finally looked at him and smiled a little, but as Jon Walker smiles went, it hardly counted. "Sure they will, Bren," he said. Brendon nodded. Of course someone would find them. At least, he was pretty sure someone would notice they were gone.

~~~~

Pete rubbed his eyes because the low, smoky lamplight was fucking killing them, and asked without much hope if anyone had seen that Nevada unit yet.

"Not yet," Patrick said. His voice had gone gentle, and Pete knew it was because Patrick knew how fond Pete was of that unit.

Pete dropped his head onto his desk and barely even winced at the thunk. "I shouldn't have sent them out alone," he muttered. "Ross is on the verge of a nervous break. They're just babies. I should have sent Andy or Joe with them, or—"

"And then we'd be out Andy or Joe," Patrick interrupted. Patrick was the only one Pete allowed to interrupt him. In theory, anyway.

"This wasn't their first trip over the top," Patrick continued, voice set on _soothe Pete._ "They know how to take care of themselves."

It didn't necessarily help them much, but then, they were all beyond help here.

"I heard there was someone in need of my ministering aide?" Gabe Saporta slid into Pete's office, scrunching up like a spring to get over the sandbags and under the low doorway.

"Er," Patrick said. He didn't really know how to handle the new Gabe Saporta.

Pete finally lifted his head off his over-cluttered desk. "Thank you, Captain Saporta," he said. "If you wanted to say a prayer for the Nevada unit, I would be grateful. They still haven't come back from the last raid." Pete couldn't keep the guilt off his face. It wasn't like the sortie had been his idea— if it was up to Pete, they'd all be boozing it up in Paris— but he'd still given the orders. Not that he had any choice, either. Fucking orders.

Gabe nodded like the great spiritual guru he thought he was. "I noticed. Well, William noticed. He's never been happy that Jon Walker transferred, you know."

Without looking, Pete knew Patrick was rolling his eyes. "Private Walker seems perfectly happy with the transfer," Pete said. "Do you want some tea?" he asked Gabe, to be polite.

"Fuck no," Gabe said. "That shit is sick. See you later, officers and gentlemen. May the Cobra be with you."

Patrick sighed. Pete hid a smile. Ever since Gabe had gotten lost in No Man's Land for a week and then come back, all he'd talked about was the Cobra. No one even knew what the hell it was supposed to mean, but it was Gabe, and they'd just been relieved they wouldn't have to replace him after all. Most people who went missing in No Man's Land never came back; to come back after a week was unheard of. Pete wasn't in the least surprised Gabe was suffering some unusual shell-shock. And right now, he seemed to be holding up fine. If Gabe got any stranger, though… well, Pete had heard the Brits were doing some good things about neurasthenia up in Scotland.

Patrick had scrunched up his face and turned his head to the side as Gabe slithered out the doorway. "Do you really think he should be wandering around on his own?"

"He can take care of himself," Pete said. "I mean, better than anyone else, I guess."

Patrick fussed with his hat. Pete bit his lip. He had long since given up on not classifying everything Patrick did as adorable. "If he's really… sick… then shouldn't we send him away?"

"He can walk on his own," Pete shrugged. "That's basically the qualification for full health around here. In case you hadn't noticed."

Patrick glared at him, and Pete tried not to let his glee show. "I noticed, sir. I just don't want him to be a danger to himself."

"I don't think he's any more of a danger to himself than he ever was. Besides, he's got Sergeant Beckett looking after him, and his orderly Navarro keeps a good eye on him, and Sergeant, er…"

Pete tried to not actually mention Sergeant McCoy, because Sergeant McCoy wasn't part of Pete's unit and wasn't supposed to be anywhere near them. He usually was, though, and Pete liked him, and so did Patrick, and so they hated to mention him, just In Case.

"Yeah, yeah," Patrick said and flapped his hand to signal _shut up_. "I get your point."

Outside, the rain picked up. They could hear it pinging on the rusty, corrugated arch that formed most of their dugout roof and splashing in the already-existing puddles outside. Pete watched Patrick because nothing else was at all nice to look at.

~~~~

"BEF?" Gerard asked the private he was helping walk back.

"No, mate, I'm a doughboy!"

Gerard looked at the uniform for the first time. "But you are English?"

"I'm going to get my American citizenship for signing up with 'em."

"This war is so fucking confusing," Gerard sighed. "I mean, um, congratulations?"

The private grinned at him. "I live in Canada."

Gerard waved his free hand in front of them. "Don't tell me that! You're making it worse!" The private laughed at him so he said "I'll leave you here!" but the private could probably tell Gerard didn't mean it.

"Anyway," Gerard sighed as they stumped down the muddy duckboards, "at least I can talk to you. We're with the British Ambulance Drivers and we can't even talk to the Americans anymore. I spent 15 minutes yesterday trying to bum a fag off one of them. I didn't even ask for a light, God knows how long that would have taken."

The doughboy, who'd been nicked in the leg by shrapnel and had every reason to be in good spirits, laughed merrily. "You've got to learn to be bilingual, mate. Like me. Bloody _sweaters_ , I ask you."

"Fuck off," Gerard grinned. "Think I'm not? Half of English slang is Hindustani; it took me for-fucking-ever to learn." He was surprised he was in such a good mood; usually Gerard hated advances. Of course, he hadn't gone over the top yet with this one, so that might have something to do with it. A shell exploding in a mostly unoccupied section of trench was nothing. Men who got injured but could practically walk on their own, like this private, was pretty cheering. Nothing like a stint in the hospital to do a man good.

They stumbled down the track a bit more before they ran into Lt. Mitchell of the BEF who was much stronger than he looked and heading in the right direction, so Gerard left the private in his care and went back to help Mikey.

If he could find Mikey. Apparently the last of the injured from the trench had been removed and Mikey must have had a critical case he thought would make it if he fucked off with their ambulance, Betsy, on his own. He would probably be back in time to run the injured from the evening hate to the Casualty Clearing Station and at least he had a tiny bit of protection. Betsy's rusty metal wouldn't stop a whizzbang but it did stop the rain, mostly.

Gerard hunted up a bit of metal roof to stand under and carefully unwrapped his cigarettes. He wanted good, warm, strong coffee with sugar and cream, and he wanted a ham sandwich on soft bread with cheese and lettuce and tomato, and somewhere under all that he wanted to drink something alcoholic until he couldn't remember anything but drinking, and none of them had any possibility of happening.

He had a cigarette, though, and Gerard tried to convince himself that what he wanted was some bully beef and some warm water, because there _was_ a possibility of that happening. It would be enough, somehow.

Gerard's wants at this point consisted almost entirely of food, sleep, cigarettes and having Mikey somewhere nearby. He didn't even really want the war to end or to go home, because he wasn't sure the war could end and they were all well past the point of going home. Gerard couldn't imagine what there was to talk about with someone who hadn't seen No Man's Land. It was much too big to talk around. Impossible to talk about.

On the whole Gerard was content to stand around and wait, and he didn't think too much about any one thing. He tried to blow smoke rings, but it was too windy. He wasn't worried about Mikey finding him; Mikey was excellent at finding Gerard.

The evening hate bombardment started up; it wouldn't be too much longer until it was dark, and then Gerard and Mikey could go over the top and start pulling out men who looked likely to survive the transport.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was dark at last and even colder and kind of drizzling again, but Brendon was okay with that. Spencer was still alive and the evening hate had died off. It wasn't _quiet_ — not at all— but it was quieter and it was always a nice break, not being shelled.

Brendon tried to speak, but he had to stop and clear his throat. He hadn't talked for a few hours. "Maybe I should try and go out and find stretcher bearers?" he asked.

There was an exchange of murmurs, barely audible over some semi-distant gunfire, and some squelching as someone shifted his weight around. "No," Ryan said, even more hoarse then Brendon. "There's no point. We'll just wait here."

Brendon and Jon couldn't exchange a look because it was too dark, but they looked in each other's direction, anyway. Brendon shivered and tucked himself closer into Jon's side. Jon wrapped his arm around Brendon and squeezed. Brendon was grateful.

He thought about praying, but he really hadn't prayed since his first tour on the front lines. He sometimes thought things like "I should pray for us now," or "I should thank God we're still alive," and at first he'd tried, but after they'd lost Brent he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Lots of people at home had told Brendon he'd feel closer to God in the war, that he'd be doing the Lord's work. If this War was the Lord's work, Brendon would rather go to Hell. It couldn't be worse than No Man's Land.

Somewhere off to the left, a landmine exploded and someone started screaming, high pitched and wild and inhuman. It cut above everything else, and Brendon was afraid for a moment that he'd never hear anything else again. There was a single gunshot, and then a moment of ringing silence that sounded like everyone was taking a relieved breath, and then the whole No Man's Land cacophony started up again.

"Thank God," Jon whispered.

Had Brendon had anything in his stomach he might have thought about throwing up; as it was he just forced his muscles to unclench and relaxed into Jon's side.

" _Mein Gott,_ " a voice said from over Brendon's shoulder. Something else in German followed.

Brendon looked around. "Hello," he said.

"English?"

"American."

"Ahh, _Amerikaner_. Hello." The German had crawled up to the edge of their shell hole and was looking in curiously. He'd lost his helmet and there was a bloody gash on his forehead. He looked older than them, but that didn't mean much out here— plenty of twenty year olds looked forty — and he was considerably bigger than them. Possibly bigger than all of them put together.

"I come in?" he asked, flinching slightly as a shell whistled over their heads.

"Sure," Brendon said, because his momma had raised him right, not because he was a sucker, which is what he knew Ryan was thinking.

"Gun first," Jon said.

The man nodded and passed over a rifle without a bayonet. Jon passed it to Ryan and then nodded. Jerry slid into the crater on his belly. Brendon and Jon scrunched over closer to Ryan to make room. The Jerry folded himself up and examined them curiously in whatever unsteady light seeped in from distant explosions.

After a moment he pulled out a waterproof matchbox and lit a lucifer match, which he used to get a closer look at Spencer. When the match went out, he dug in his kit bag and passed over a white bundle to Ryan. "Here," he said. "Rent!"

Ryan took the white package and fiddled with it. It looked like the Jerry's field bandage issue. Ryan looked up at him and nodded seriously. He bent over Spencer to change the bandage.

"Food?" Jerry asked hopefully.

"Sorry," Brendon shook his head. They'd been out here all day and they'd all broken into their iron rations long ago.

The German shrugged philosophically and sank back into the mud.

After a few moments of silence, Jerry nodded at Spencer. "Good one. I had myself! B-Blighty one? Goink home for tvoo veeks, kiss the girls. Good."

Brendon smiled. He didn't know if the Jerry was being totally truthful, but it was nice of him to say. Brendon himself hadn't looked at Spencer's wound since the first eyeful of that awful rush of blood. Ryan wouldn't let anyone else touch Spencer.

Spencer groaned— changing the bandage must have woken him up a little— and everyone turned to look at him. Brendon thought they all must be holding their breaths, but Spencer didn't say anything else. There was a flash of light, and Brendon could see Ryan's shaking hand smoothing back Spencer's hair. Brendon imagined the touch would feel like a feather, barely there.

Jon squeezed Brendon's hand. Brendon squeezed back.

"Shh!" the Jerry said, even though no one had been talking. Brendon was about to say something about that when he heard it, too. The worst sound on the Western Front. Rattles.

 _Ohshitohshitohshit_ replaced all other thoughts in Brendon's head, and the Jerry was saying " _Gaz_ " in a grim but unpanicked tone. Brendon's hands were moving on their own, and it was funny because Brendon felt like he was shaking but his hands were steady as they rifled through his pack and pulled out his mask.

"Spencer," Jon groaned.

Brendon's head snapped up to look. Ryan hadn't pulled out his own mask yet. He'd pulled out Spencer's and was leaning over him, trying to figure out how to get it on.

"No," the Jerry said. "You first."

It was dark but Brendon could imagine the look Ryan was sending Jerry. Jerry had his own mask on and he leaned across the crater and pulled the mask out of Ryan's hand.

"Don't—"

"I him place. You mask."

Brendon tensed but Ryan seemed to realize there wasn't much he could do without a mask. Some asshole somewhere sent up a Very light and Brendon got a glimpse of Ryan's face in the flickering white light, tense lines in high relief. He was digging through his pack, looking for his mask.

Jon, his mask on, moved into the center of the crater, kneeling in the puddle. He held Spencer up while the Jerry carefully slipped the mask around Spencer's head and tried to adjust it so it was in place. The Very light was still flickering above, making it easy to see, and Brendon changed his mind. Whoever had sent it up was a _genius_ , not an asshole.

Jerry stayed by Spencer, helping to keep him upright. Ryan was hovering like he wanted to get back in close. Brendon watched a slow wave of dark blood flow down the front of Spencer's uniform. Mercifully, the Very light went out and they were left sitting in the dark.

The sound of rattles was muffled by the masks. Brendon had no trouble hearing the soft explosions like puffs of air as the gas cylinders were fired, though. Brendon whimpered to himself. He wished someone would come back on his side of the crater. He kept his eye on the sky, tried to focus. If a gas cylinder fell into their hole, he'd be the one to throw it out. They'd never get the gas out of their hole, so they had to get as little in it as possible.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened and nothing happened and nothing continued to happen, until Brendon wished something would happen, just so there would be some kind of change. When Brendon heard the rattles again he thought he was imaging it, but Ryan said "Is that the all clear?"

Jerry slowly took off his mask and took a deep sniff. He left Spencer between Jon and Ryan and peaked over the crater edge, then turned back around and shrugged. No gas.

The rest of them carefully removed their masks, and when no one died Ryan and Jon gingerly pulled Spencer's mask off, too. They laid him down, trying to move him as little as possible. Spencer looked even paler than before the gas warning and Brendon tried not to think about the wave of blood. Jon came back and sat by Brendon.

Somewhere not too far away, someone was sobbing. Brendon wondered out loud if someone should go look for him. No one replied. Brendon didn't volunteer. No one looked at each other and gradually the sobbing stopped.

The rain started again and the cold intensified with it. Brendon was thinking about making the case to go look for help again when heavy squelching sounds came from above them.

"Anyone here?" someone shouted.

"Here!" Brendon shouted immediately, and waved his hand above the crater rim. Ryan made a strangled noise and started to lurch across the crater, but Jon snatched Brendon's hand down for him.

It worked, though. Whoever was running around up there headed towards them.

"That better be the fucking Ways," Spencer said, voice rough and weak but only wavering a little, making everyone else jump. "If it isn't, I'm going to kill them."

Luckily for everyone, it was.

"Hey, sardines, you guys are packed in here," Gerard said, wiping mud out of his eyes as he leaned over the crater. "Who needs a stretcher?"

"Pfc. Spencer Smith," Ryan said. His voice sounded kind of wrecked.

"On it," Gerard said.

Brendon was weak with relief. Help had come at last, and the Ways were his favorite VADs. When Gerard said it would be okay, you _believed_ him.

Gerard and Mikey slid into the crater with their stretcher. Somehow the stretcher top was free of fresh mud, although it was by no means white.

"All right, let's see what we got." Gerard and Mikey bent over Spencer. A black out lantern appeared in Mikey's hand out of nowhere, and he focused the light on Spencer. Gerard checked the bandage. "At least it's in a good place," he said.

They shuffled around, and Jon suddenly rose and moved to help. He was a better choice than Ryan, who looked like he might be kind of close to breaking. Brendon reached out and pulled Ryan closer to him, to get Ryan out of the way. And also because it had been a long time since Brendon had touched Ryan, and Ryan clearly needed a hug. The Jerry also crawled over to help, and since he was probably big enough to carry Spencer on his own, he was actually helpful.

Working in whispers, they moved Spencer to the stretcher. "Can the rest of you make it back?" Gerard asked.

Brendon, Ryan, and Jon said yes.

"I'm a prisoner?" the Jerry said hopefully.

"Not that kind of body snatchers," Gerard said, looking worried and apologetic. " _Rotes Kreuz_. We don't take prisoners. Sorry. Unless you're hurt, I mean. Are you hurt?"

Jerry shook his head.

"You'll have to go with them, then," he nodded to where Brendon and Ryan were huddled on the other side of the crater.

The Jerry shrugged. It didn't seem to make a difference to him.

Jon suddenly bent over Spencer. "Yes?" he said.

Everyone else went silent, listening, but Spencer didn't say anything else. Jon just smoothed Spencer's hair back, his hand lingering on Spencer's face in a way that Ryan's hadn't.

"We need to go," Gerard said gently.

"Will someone scout for us?" Mikey finally spoke.

Brendon turned and poked his head above the crater. Ryan's grip on his hand tightened. "Looks good to me," he said. "I think you should go for it."

When he turned back around, Gerard grinned at them. "We're taking him to Casualty Clearing Station 33. Good luck to all of you."

"You too," Jon murmured.

Mikey nodded at them, and then he and Gerard picked up Spencer's stretcher and moved to the edge of the crater. They weren't really protected there, and they were about to start running when Ryan called "Wait!" His voice broke in the middle, and maybe it was that that made Gerard turn around and speak gently to him.

"What is it?"

"Will he be all right?" Ryan had half risen to his knees; Jon pulled him back down again.

Gerard sighed— Brendon couldn't hear it, but he could see it in the drop of his shoulders. "I promise we'll get him back to base, kid. And try not to worry about him anymore until you all get yourselves back safely."

He turned back, and still moving at a crouch, they began to run it back. Brendon lost sight of them quickly— they were good— but Ryan and Jon kept staring long after Brendon thought they were lost to view.

He cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "Our turn." He nudged Ryan.

"Oh, right," Ryan said. "Jon, you ready?"

"More than."

"Jerry?"

Jerry gave them a thumbs up. He crossed the crater to crouch behind them. "I am called Zack," he added.

Brendon turned around to shake hands but Ryan punched him in the shoulder and Brendon remembered to concentrate.

A flare of light off to one side faded and it got very dark. That was their moment. Ryan didn't have to give an order, they all sprang out of the shell hole. Brendon's legs had been cramped up all day, though, and for an agonizing moment they refused to work. On the edge of the shell hole, Brendon tottered, trying to force his muscles to hurry up and uncramp. His legs started to collapse under him, but he was caught under the arms and hauled upright.

"Run!" Zack commanded.

It was all Brendon needed as the adrenaline kicked in and all the pain receded. He fumbled a hand out and latched onto Ryan's pack. Jon was on Ryan's other side, and Zack kept a hand around Brendon's other arm, a big hulking mass at Brendon's back, and all together they ran for the Allied lines.

~ ~ ~ ~

Casualty Clearing Station 33 was one of Gerard's favorite places in the world. Although after three years, Gerard had trouble remembering places that weren't the Western Front, so this might not be as accurate as was desirable.

He and Mikey had been stationed out of CCS 33 pretty much since they arrived on the Western Front in 1915, except for that time last August in Ypres Gerard didn't think about. The station had been in ANZAC hands first; later the English had taken over, and they'd been in charge until just this spring. Now the Americans had it. Well, except for Chislett, who had somehow forgotten to leave.

Gerard and Mikey had unloaded their survivors— two dead in transport, not bad— and Gerard was hunting for some coffee. Mikey was still inside the theater talking to Dr. Toro. Gerard liked Ray, but he really wasn't a fan of hanging around operations.

Since the Yanks had come, coffee was a lot more plentiful, thank God. Gerard and Mikey used to have to make special trips to the French lines, but now there was coffee regularly available in the parts of the lines held by the American Expeditionary Force.

Gerard wandered around, mug in hand, trying to locate some grounds. Mikey pretty much always knew where to find coffee and cigarettes. Frequently, soldiers they rescued gave them their fags as a thank you. Gerard still felt kind of bad about taking them, but it was really hard to keep fags dry, even with all the tricks Gerard had thought up, so more were always welcome.

Gerard poked his head in the canteen but Schechter was still in there, sitting with Bob. They were probably drinking coffee. If Schechter's back had been to the door, Gerard would have risked it. He thought about it anyway, but Schechter half turned his head toward the door and Gerard ducked out instead. Schechter liked to yell. Gerard had yet to see him in a good mood, and they'd known each other for three years.

Gerard looked at the interior of his empty cup. Empty coffee cups made him sad. They looked so unnatural. He headed for one of the tent wards; sometimes the nurses made coffee in them. The wards stank but not much worse than the rickety ambulance the Ways drove up and down the lines, and this was a good ward. Most of the men in it were conscious or just napping. It was loud and crowded and _alive_ , and it was a breath of fresh air after the front lines. A breath of blood, medicinal alcohol, and slightly chloroform-tinted air, but a relief all the same.

Gerard picked his way through the ward. It was crowded, with nurses and patients pushing every way, so Gerard tried to tuck himself out of the way as he scanned the tent.

There was a boy-man (they were all boy-men, the soldiers) sitting up on his bed, staring at Gerard. Or maybe staring wasn't quite the right word; it wasn't rude or curious or cold or shocked or any of the other things Gerard usually associated with staring. The soldier was looking at Gerard simply like Gerard was the most interesting thing in the room. Gerard wasn't used to that, and it unnerved him. Ridiculous, really, that a _look_ could unnerve, after all he'd seen. He looked back at the guy and gave a little wave. The guy beamed back. It startled Gerard; it felt like the smile had beamed across the room and hit him like a shot from a flame thrower. It was…nice, Gerard supposed. As soon as he got his breath back, Gerard would go over and say hi.

He crossed the ward by stepping carefully and well-timed dodging. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Nurse Ballato by knocking something vital over. She might not let him steal any coffee.

"Hello," he said to the smiling soldier. Up close he was actually kind of pretty. Or, well, very pretty, but Gerard wasn't supposed to notice things like that.

 _Ça va!_ " he said cheerfully.

"Oh!" Gerard blinked in surprise. " _Poilu?_ "

He nodded. "But I speak English fairly well," he grinned.

"You do," Gerard agreed. He had no idea what they were supposed to be talking about. "So… what are you doing up here?"

"I was supposed to be up here training your sappers," he said. A sapper. That explained why someone so small was enlisted. "Minnie showed up," he continued. "Boom!" He giggled. Gerard wondered for a moment if he was neurasthenic. That happened to sappers, more than to the others.

Gerard couldn't help but run his gaze over the _poilu_ 's body. He didn't look badly injured— all his limbs were there.

The _poilu_ noticed. "I got a… cun-cush-on? Everything's still there." He winked at Gerard.

Gerard felt his cheeks go hot, and he didn't want to meet the other man's eye. He hadn't been wondering. Not that Gerard hadn't seen it happen, though.

"I'm a VAD," Gerard said, because he desperately needed to say _something._

"I know!" _poilu_ said. He sounded delighted. "I know you! I've seen you. On our lines. Looking for _café._ With another man."

Gerard couldn't resist a peek and once he saw the _poilu_ 's smile, he couldn't help but stay and look and smile back. "Yeah, my brother Mikey. He loves coffee, too."

"You haven't been for awhile." The _poilu_ sounded almost scolding.

"Well, now that the Yanks are here, there's coffee here. So we don't have to go beg for it elsewhere."

The _poilu_ nodded sagely. "Tommy only drinks tea," he made a face.

Gerard grinned. "Yeah, that was a problem."

The _poilu_ was smirking up him, eyes twinkling. He looked like an elf. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "In hospital? Not hurt?"

"Oh, no! And, well…" Gerard sheepishly held up his mug. "Looking for coffee, actually."

The _poilu_ threw his head back and laughed. "You spend all the time looking for coffee? You come to France for the _café_?"

"Well," Gerard said, and he didn't even notice his own giggle, "not _just_ the coffee."

"Oh!" the _poilu_ said, and scrambled around on the bedside table, then held up his own tin cup. "You find any, you bring me some? _S'il vous plait?_ "

" _De rien,_ " Gerard said, and took the cup. He hesitated a moment, then sort of waved the cup at the _poilu_. "I'll be right back, then."

The _poilu_ nodded.

Well, Gerard thought as he shuffled away, that explained the staring. He'd recognized Gerard. Gerard had been trying to place the man but couldn't. He'd probably never seen him without his helmet on, or clean, or both. A sapper, especially, would be dirty all the time.

Gerard shivered. Living in a trench was one thing, as was running through No Man's Land collecting the injured. Being a sapper— digging _under_ No Man's Land, right up to enemy trenches to plant explosives, knowing all the time that enemy sappers were digging toward you— that was something else entirely. That was a whole brand of crazy Gerard could not in a million years imagine himself doing.

Of course, No Man's Land was nothing he could have imagined in a million years, either. And Gerard had an infamously vivid, dark, disturbed imagination. According to his teachers, anyway.

Gerard let his nose lead him to the coffee pot. He had to fight off a considerable number of infantrymen, which he did by pulling rank. Technically Gerard and Mikey and the other volunteers of course had no rank, but Gerard had been on the front since 1915, much, much longer than any American soldier (except that Harkness in the BEF he occasionally ran into), and he knew how to pull rank without pulling rank. He glared a lot, and the rookies backed off.

Gerard filled both cups and took a sip— nectar from the gods, even though it was probably 50% dirt— topped up his cup again, and carefully walked the coffee back to his _poilu_.

He was fidgeting and looking eager and took his cup with a " _Merci beaucoup_."

They drank in silence for a few moments, enjoying the caffeine.

Gerard looked down when something nudged his leg. The _poilu_ had kicked him through his blanket. "What's your name?" he asked.

"I'm Gerard. Gerard Way."

"Gerard Way. _Enchanté._ " He held out a hand for Gerard to shake. "My name is Francisco Iero. In English, Frank."

Gerard smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Frank."

~ ~ ~ ~

"You're back!" Pete shouted. He jumped up from the step and waved. He didn't fight the grin. This unit hadn't been with him long— they'd transferred when Captain Flowers bought it a month and a half ago— but he was pretty fucking fond of them. And when he'd taken them on he'd agreed to watch out for them, and Pete had been jumpy with guilt that he'd lost the whole unit somewhere in No Man's Land.

They looked exhausted and were plastered in mud, three little grey wraiths and… one big grey wraith.

"Hey," Pete said, pointing. "What the fucking fuck? You swapped?"

Ross tried to answer but his voice failed. Two of the little wraiths pressed up against him. Ross tried again. "Private Smith has been taken to Casualty Clearing Station 33. This is Zack. He's a Jerry."

"Oh," Pete said. "All right then." That wasn't too bad. Smith was still alive last they saw him, and that was pretty lucky, really.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Patrick said, not really looking up from where he was trying to wrangle a large pile of soggy papers. "That will be all. Go get some rest and food and clean up. We move back in two hours."

Ross sent off a half-assed salute. All Ross's salutes were like that, though, so Pete didn't take offense.

"Well," Pete said, when they'd gone, "that works out tidily."

"You mean now we can move back when we're supposed to instead of hanging around waiting for that unit to come back?" Patrick's voice was dry.

Pete didn't know whether to be annoyed that Patrick had seen through him or rapturous about it. He went for both. "I don't know what you mean or what you may be implying," Pete said airily.

"You really think I couldn't tell you were going to wait here until they came back? Even though plenty of men never come back?"

Pete smiled. "I knew they weren't dead, Stump."

Patrick tilted his head so that the light bounced off his glasses and Pete couldn't see his eyes. "Sure you did, sir."

Pete started whistling "Tipperary." Four less letters he would have to write.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Any more for any more?" Suarez shouted.

"Come on!" Brendon said eagerly and tugged at whoever he could reach. "We're here!" he shouted at Suarez. "We're coming!"

Suarez waved a ladle at them in recognition. Brendon didn't slow down, though. He was _starving_.

"Back from a day in No Man's Land!" Blackinton hailed them.

"Does that mean we get an extra ration?" Jon wiggled his eyebrows.

"For you, Jon Walker, anything." Blackinton doled out the secret rum rations. To Brendon's considerable surprise, Ryan actually accepted. Not only did Ryan take it, he threw it back neat. Brendon had only ever seen Ryan drink alcohol once before, the first time they'd come out of No Man's Land, and they— Ryan and Spencer and Brent and Brendon— had shared a bottle of wine they'd found. Ryan wasn't supposed to drink, and he certainly wasn't supposed to drink like _that_. Where had he even learned that?

Brendon opened his mouth to ask but Jon shook his head over Ryan's shoulder and Brendon shut his mouth. Of course Ryan was drinking. Spencer had been shot. Just thinking about it made Brendon want another shot, and he wasn't nearly as dependent on Spencer as Ryan.

Brendon took another swallow and started to feel warm from the inside. It was nice. "This is niiiiiiice," he said, to no one in particular.

Suarez scraped his pot for them and gave them the last of the bread, too. They sat down at the nearest table and shoveled food in without talking.

Someone walked up whistling "Mademoiselle from Armentieres" and interrupted himself to shout "Nevada! Welcome back!" Gabe shimmed into place at the head of the table and beamed at them. "The Cobra has guided you all back safely and my flock has returned to my arms!" And then he made that weird sign with his hands that he did all the time now.

Ryan gave Gabe a skanky look and Brendon didn't blame him. That was kind of creepy.

Gabe didn't seem to notice. "I totally prayed for you and everything. I was worried about all you pretty little girls, out there alone. Um," he seemed to notice Zack for the first time. "Except for you, large and muscly gentleman! Where did you find that one?" he stage whispered to Brendon.

"Germany," Brendon replied.

"Allyman!" Gabe cried. "Well, nice to meet you. Welcome to the other side! The Cobra has led you here!"

Zack looked at Ryan, Jon, and Brendon in turn. Brendon would have loved to explain, but… there really wasn't any way to explain Gabe. So he just smiled and shrugged. Zack shrugged back.

"Aren't you missing one? The one with the hips that glares all the time?" Gabe was peering at them, like he was trying to figure out how to tell them apart.

Ryan glared. Gabe pointed at him. "See, now you're trying to fool me! That's not nice."

Jon explained about Spencer, but he didn't really look up while he talked.

Gabe shook his head sadly. "The Cobra is looking after him, children. Blessings up and on all of you! It's been lovely to see you all," Gabe continued. "But I have to go harass Ryland and Alex now. Don't forget, Private Walker," he wagged a finger at Jon, "you have to go tell Billy Beckett you're dandy. He's been _pining._ Peace upon you!" He made his hand sign again and burst out with " _We may forget the gas and shells, We'll never forget the mademoiselles_!" as he turned and danced over to where Suarez and Blackinton were trying to clean the cooking pot.

They sat in silence for a moment. "Well," Jon said. "That wasn't as bad as it could have been."

~ ~ ~ ~

Mikey found them sometime later, still talking in the ward. He raised his eyebrows at Gerard and said "You're Frank," to Frank. Gerard stared. How did Mikey know everyone on the Western Front? It was ridiculous.

"You're Mikey!" Frank said cheerfully. They shook hands.

Mikey took Gerard's cup and drained the last of it. He raised an eyebrow at Gerard again, and Gerard nodded in the direction of the coffee pot. Mikey headed off.

Frank finished off his own coffee and placed the cup carefully back on the side table. "Well," he said. "I can probably leave here. Do you want to go to the estaminet?"

Gerard was pretty hungry. "Sure!"

Frank grinned back. "I just have to get some new clothes, maybe."

Mikey wandered back, nose in his mug. Gerard's mug. "Ready for dinner? Frank's coming with us."

"Sure," Mikey said.

Frank's smile had slipped a little but it brightened again. He tugged on his boots and carefully stood up— it took him a second to get his balance. He took a swift, surreptitious look around the ward— he probably _wasn't_ actually allowed to leave, then— and the three of them headed out. Luckily, most of the nurses seemed to be at dinner.

Gerard and Mikey waited outside while Frank slipped into the back of the delousing station to snatch a clean uniform. They did not, of course, have a French uniform so Frank came out dressed like a doughboy and making faces about it, which made Gerard laugh.

They climbed into their ambulance, with Frank squeezing in the middle. He started chattering— asking them where they'd been today, who they'd picked up, telling them what he thought of the doctors and nurses, rude things about the staff officers he'd met, wondering out loud about the people they passed.

The more he talked and the more excited he got, the more French crept in. Gerard didn't have a problem— after three years, his French was pretty good. Mikey, though, seemed stubbornly resistant, and Gerard wasn't sure how much of Frank's chatter he was picking up. Then again, Gerard himself was mostly listening to the sound of his voice, the French way it had of curling around words, even English words.

It wasn't very far to the nearest town, and during peace time it was probably a quick drive. But now the road was a disaster and (although Gerard would never say it out loud for fear of offending Betsy) their ambulance was a disaster. The estaminet was jumping by the time they pulled up and they had to use their elbows to push their way through the crowd inside.

Because it was high dinner time, the kitchen was only making eggs and chips; anyone wanting something else had to come at a different time. Gerard wasn't a very picky eater and eggs and chips were fine with him. Frank jumped up on the bar to have a conversation with the owner. Once the owner realized Frank was a _poilu_ and not an _étranger_ they magically got seats at the bar, faster service, and a bottle of wine even materialized.

Gerard felt bad turning down the wine, but he didn't drink alcohol, not since the July 1916 Incident. He wasn't a teetotaler like the Temperance movement back home; he didn't care about anyone else's drinking as long as it didn't negatively affect him. But alcohol and Gerard didn't mix well, and he had learned that the hard way.

He asked for water and kept Frank's and Mikey's glasses full instead. It was too loud and crowded to explain and Frank seemed to understand that, or at least he didn't ask Gerard about it. Frank was busy keeping up on conversations, anyway, one with the Ways, one with the estaminet owners, and, briefly, one about Arsenal with a loud group of Tommies behind them.

Frank was quick and bright and easy with a laugh and Gerard enjoyed just watching him. Their knees kept bumping together under the bar and Gerard tried not to think about anything beyond this moment. He was feeling kind of buzzed himself, just from osmosis maybe.

Frank was telling him about growing up on Corsica, and Gerard had turned to face him more fully, resting his elbow between the counter and the handrail that ran along the front of the bar. He propped his chin on his fist and watched how Frank's hands moved as he talked. Gerard's elbow slipped down between the rail and the bar counter, and at first it was actually kind of comfortable, but Gerard fidgeted a lot and a few moments later he tried to move his elbow and… couldn't. He could slide it back and forth but not up.

Gerard tried not to let on that he was freaking out and tried to tug his arm free but nothing he did worked.

Frank stopped talking and stared, mouth open and starting to curve in a smile. "Are you stuck?"

"I… yes," Gerard hung his head. Both Frank and Mikey burst out laughing. Gerard twitched in his seat. Mikey leaned over and bumped Gerard's elbow from below and Gerard's arm popped out. "Thanks," he muttered.

Frank laughed so hard he slid off his stool.

Gerard laughed too. His humiliation was complete— what else was new?

Frank patted Gerard's shoulder and then left his hand there as he climbed back up on the stool. Gerard pretended not to notice.

Frank leaned close. "I didn't realize the bar is _dangereux_ ," he murmured. "I'll have to keep a better eye on you."

Gerard tried to elbow Frank in the ribs but didn't do a very good job of it. Probably something to do with how he didn't really mind Frank keeping an eye— or a hand— on him. Maybe something to do with how Gerard liked having Frank hanging on him and whispering in his ear.

The joint was emptying out and Frank looked tired. Gerard guiltily recalled that Frank was supposed to be in the hospital and dug up a pile of francs and chits to leave behind. He herded Mikey and Frank back to Betsy and was thankful he hadn't had anything to drink as he made the difficult drive back. It was quieter, with everyone sleepy and full.

Gerard didn't realize he was humming until Frank joined in, and Mikey stirred himself enough to beat an accompaniment on the dashboard.

So then Gerard figured he'd might as well go ahead and actually sing. " _Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag…_ " He could feel Frank's eyes on him but Gerard kept his gaze focused on the road. _"While you've a Lucifer to light your fag, smile boy that's the style…"_

Gerard could see a few stars for once and he sort of felt like a star, shining and bright in the cold dark.

~ ~ ~ ~

They still had time before they were due to leave for the reserve trench, so Brendon found them a quiet corner to curl up in. Spencer usually looked after Ryan, but Spencer wasn't here, so Brendon would have to do it for him. Brendon really didn't mind.

He sank down in the mud. Jon and Zack sat down on their own, but Ryan only dropped his pack and then fluttered around like he couldn't decide what to do.

"Ryan," Jon called softly.

Brendon reached up and wrapped a hand around Ryan's wrist. He tugged gently, then not so gently when Ryan resisted. "You need to rest. Wearing yourself out isn't going to do Spencer any good." He added a pout for good measure.

For a moment, it looked like Ryan was going to say something mean, then he sighed and slumped against Brendon. Brendon tried not to look too pleased as he pulled Ryan close. He wrapped an arm around Ryan's shoulders, and Ryan let his head roll into the hollow of Brendon's neck. He sighed, and Brendon could feel his warm breath flutter across his neck.

Jon raised his eyebrows at Brendon. Brendon thought he was probably blushing and looked away from Jon. Zack looked amused, then closed his eyes and settled against the trench wall.

"We'll all be just fine," Jon said, his voice warm and mellow. It hit Brendon like of shot of something warm and at last Brendon nodded off.

"Wake up." Ryan was whispering into his ear, and Brendon thought that must be a dream. He smiled anyway.

"Urie!" something hard hit him. "Get your ass up, we're up and out!"

Brendon blinked up at Ryan, trying to figure out if the first "wake up" had been real, but Ryan was starting to glower, and Zack laid a hand on his shoulder and said "Up now," so Brendon decided it didn't matter right now.

His thoughts felt thick and slow and didn't really make sense, and his eyes were burning and wow, an hour nap was kind of worse than not sleeping at all. He let Zack keep him upright as they stumbled down the trench. There were plenty of random shells flying overhead but none of them close enough to even warrant looking up.

Brendon yawned and stepped through the duckboards into a cold puddle which helped wake him up. They passed by Captain Wentz's dugout and Brendon waved. Wentz nodded at them as Lt. Stump checked them off. Wentz could look professional at the most random times.

Then he was following Ryan and Jon down the communications trench. _Reserve trench, reserve trench,_ he thought, feeling more awake and starting to get cheerful again. Leaving the front. Survived another trip over the top.

Brendon started singing "Shelled Last Night" as they marched, to make sure they didn't get shelled on their way. Sergeant Beckett ran up and threw an arm over Brendon's shoulder and sang along. Ryan glared at Beckett. Ryan was going to be really mean without Spencer, Brendon could see, because Beckett hadn't done anything. He could even sing nicely.

 _"When we're shelled, we're scared as we can be!  
God strafe the bombing planes from High Germany!"_

Beckett reached out and pulled Jon under his other arm. The communications trench really wasn't wide enough for two men to walk together, let alone three, but they were all small and they just sort of swayed back and forth to make it. Jon sang with them.

 _"They're over us! They're over us!  
One shell hole for the four of us!"_

Brendon looked at Jon and Jon smiled and sang _"Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us—_ " and together they looked back at Zack— " _Cause one of us could fill it all alone!_ "

Brendon giggled and started on the verse about gassing, trying to get Ryan to sing along. He would sometimes, although Spencer never did. Ryan, though, just walked ahead making little huffy noises.

After that they sang "Hush, Here Comes A Whizzbang" and Beckett had his whole unit singing along out of tune on purpose, and even Zack was humming. Tom Conrad stole Jon from Beckett and they waltzed each other up the trench, laughing and tripping and bumping into everyone. Ryan, though, Ryan wouldn't even turn around, and Brendon knew better than to touch him when he was like this.

They passed the regiment heading up the line and they all sang "I Want to Go Home" together, exchanging nudges and friendly pats and insults as they passed.

 _"Take me over the sea, where the alleyman can't get at me;  
Oh my, I don't want to die, I want to go home."_

Brendon could hear them singing " _The Yanks are coming!_ " as they moved away, but Brendon's own unit had reached the Second Line trenches now and the regiment was scattering

Sgt. Ross's unit had claimed a dugout off Piccadilly Circus. It wasn't the best location but it was somewhere to come home to. While he was still in America, Brendon would never have believed he could look forward to a cold, dank hole in the ground so much. It looked incredibly good tonight, though. As busy as the intersection was (there was a _reason_ it had been named Piccadilly Circus), it was still miles better than the noise of the front line. Also, Dylan was there, and Jon barely took off his pack before he'd scooped the cat up and was making hilarious noises at him.

Once inside, though, the problem of Zack became apparent. "Um," Ryan said, "here." He gathered up Spencer's biscuits and gave them to Zack. "I guess you'd better sleep on these tonight." Brendon saw Jon smile at Ryan, and Ryan almost smiled back. It was nice of him to hand over Spencer's mattress like that, although Spencer's place, next to Ryan, was going to be vacant. Zack laid out the biscuits across the door, like a guard, which was pretty spiffy of him, Brendon thought.

Brendon sorted the mail quickly— they didn't have much. Ryan and Spencer had letters and a small package from Spencer's family, which meant there were cookies in their future; there was also a letter for Ryan with unfamiliar handwriting. Jon had a letter from his parents and one from Tom, because they liked to annoy the army by mailing each other letters, and Brendon had a letter from his parents and one from his sister. He clutched them to his chest but was too tired to read them tonight. The light was still on but he curled up on his own biscuits under his bedroll and slipped back into sleep like the march back hadn't happened.

~ ~ ~ ~

They tried to sneak Frank back in but Dr. Bob Bryar was standing by Frank's empty bed, face like a thundercloud, if thunderclouds were blond. And Dr. Bob was scarier than a thundercloud.

"I should have known," he muttered darkly when he saw the Ways with Frank.

"Doctor Hun," Mikey said agreeably. He was the only one who got away with calling Dr. Bob that, because glares that threatened death and dismemberment somehow didn't register with Mikey. Gerard thought it also had something to do with just being Mikey.

"If patients disappear you know the Ways aren't far away. Schechter's looking for you, you know."

Gerard decided to ignore most of that. It had only been that _one time_ — well, twice now. "We brought him back."

"We had to go to dinner," Frank said, innocently. "The food around this place might kill me." He suddenly jumped on Dr. Bob and grabbed his arm. Bryar seemed to have been expecting this; he swung Frank toward the bed and shook him off, and most of Frank somehow ended up on the bed.

Bryar pointed sternly at the bed. "Stay. _Restez-vous._ "

Frank rolled his eyes. Gerard didn't blame him. Bryar didn't have a very good accent. At some point Gerard had folded his arms, and now he hunched over them and glared at the floor a bit. Gerard really didn't see why Frank had felt it necessary to _jump_ on Bryar like that.

Nurse Asher came hurrying over, and Gerard and Mikey took a step back, because she could be scary. She waved a pair of pajamas at Frank. "Change. Now." She pulled the screens around his bed closed.

"Good night Gerard and Mikey!" Frank shouted. "I'll see you tomorrow, no?"

"Um," Gerard said, and tried to think.

"Yes," Mikey called. "Goodnight."

Nurse Asher glared at them. "Do not shout in my ward." Even Bryar looked chastised, and he nodded at the Ways and slunk off.

Gerard and Mikey mumbled apologies and hurried out. The patients that were still awake were grinning at them. They stopped for a cigarette outside the ward and then Gerard went to start Betsy.

Once they'd climbed back in, Mikey raised his eyebrows at Gerard. "I would have brought Nurse Simmons if I'd known it was going to be a date."

"What?" Gerard said, and stomped on the gas pedal with the hand brake still on. The engine complained like a gouty old man. Mikey just looked at him over the top of his glasses.

Gerard flushed and resolved to stop looking at Mikey. "It wasn't— what the hell are you talking about, Mikey?" It wasn't really a question.

Unfortunately, even though Gerard was definitely not looking at Mikey, he still knew exactly which look Mikey was giving him.

The tips of Gerard's ears were getting warm. He finally got the ambulance into drive and they rattled off toward their barracks.

"So," Mikey said. " _Frank._ " Gerard wondered grumpily how Mikey managed to get so much meaning into one word even with his monotone. _Frank_ indeed.

"Dippy," Mikey remarked.

Gerard hunched his shoulders around his ears. "That obvious?" he said glumly. Could he ever not embarrass himself for five minutes?

"Yes, but…" Mikey cleared his throat in a significant way. " _Him._ "

Gerard swerved off the road. It took him a moment to notice, and it turned out this part of the shoulder was actually in better condition, so Gerard stayed there and pretended he'd done it on purpose.

"Really?" he squeaked.

Mikey snorted.

It was pretty much black inside the cab, so Gerard let himself give the road the biggest, cheesiest grin his mouth could make. Mikey knew anyway, of course. Gerard could tell from the way Mikey elbowed him in the side.

~ ~ ~ ~

All of Pete's little soldier boys were in bed for the night. Except Patrick, of course. At first Patrick had tried to stay up until Pete went to bed like a proper valet, but after three days straight of falling asleep in his chair Pete convinced him to give it up. Patrick slept like a normal person; Pete didn't. He never had, and he certainly wasn't going to start during a war.

Pete went to the showers and by the time he got out Patrick had been to the laundry and gotten him a fresh uniform. He waited while Patrick had a shower, and when Patrick got out he was flustered to find Pete waiting outside, which was of course why Pete had done it in the first place.

They walked back slowly, moving from pool of light to pool of light created by lanterns hung up where ever there was availability. All the night's shelling was in other sectors, and Pete thought the distant whistles and faint booms were sort of soothing in a way. When he expressed this to Patrick, however, Patrick said "You know people are dying over there?"

"But we're not dying tonight," Pete said. Patrick conceded the point with a nod of his head. "And anyway, I think it's kind of romantic."

Patrick looked at him askance and tugged his hat down over his eyes. But he didn't pull away or sigh, and Pete congratulated himself. Baby steps to victory.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gabe, William, Travis, and a bottle of gin were having a special meeting in Gabe's office. Gabe liked to preach to them about the Cobra. Travis and Bill liked the gin. And they didn't mind Gabe. He was a lot more fun now. They tried to keep quiet because Gabe's orderly, Nate Navarro, was already asleep in the other room.

"I was thinking," Gabe said. He was laying on his back on his desk, staring up at the ceiling. "I was thinking about that nurse. You know. Nurse Asher."

"Oh yeah," Travis said. "Yeah, I been thinking about her too." He nudged William and grinned.

"She's all right," William agreed reluctantly. "For a girl." He tossed his hair to make sure they knew exactly what he meant. William was far prettier, though he did say it himself.

"Legs up to here," Travis said, waving his hand vaguely by his neck.

William pouted.

"Yeah," Gabe said, glassy-eyed. "I mean, no! Well, yes, that's all true, but also, I was thinking maybe she's ready to receive the word of the Cobra. You know?"

William bit his lip. Travie looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "You think she's ready to receive the Cobra?" William was impressed Travis sounded so serious. If William started talking, he was going to bubble over with laughter.

"What do you think?" Gabe asked.

"I think you better ask her if she's ready to receive the Cobra." This time, Travis and Bill both had to clap their hands over their mouths. Gabe didn't notice.

"Yeah. Maybe I will."

"We'll go with you," William said, just barely getting the words out. He turned away and laughed silently.

"Oh yeah," Travis said. "No way are we missing this."

~~~~

Brendon slept through reveille and when he woke up light was already reaching into the trench outside their door. Zack and Jon were still asleep but Ryan was sitting up, back against the wall, looking down. Brendon scooched up and sat next to Ryan.

"Good morning, Sarge," he said.

Ryan snorted faintly. He had an unopened letter in his lap and was slowly turning it over in his hands.

"What's that?" Brendon nudged him.

"Letter from home," Ryan said.

Brendon was surprised. He'd never known Ryan to get letters from his parents, just Spencer's. He'd assumed Ryan's were dead. "I thought maybe you were getting a promotion," he smiled. Brendon wrote home about Ryan a lot, mentioning what an excellent leader he was, thoughtful and thorough and other military-good things. He knew Wentz read all the letters— or at least Stump did— and he wanted to help Ryan any way he could.

"Yeah, right," Ryan mumbled.

"Well," Brendon said after an awkward silence. "Aren't you going to read it?"

"I don't know," Ryan answered, and it was clear he was perfectly serious about that.

"Oh." Brendon didn't always get along with his family, but he couldn't imagine not wanting to hear from them. He glanced sideways at Ryan. Well, Brendon could imagine them not wanting to hear from _him_. Should they ever find out...

Ryan was holding the envelope by the corners, balanced on his fingertips, spinning it around. Ryan must have come to a decision because he abruptly snatched the letter up and tucked it in his pocket book. "Let's go to breakfast."

"What about Jon and Zack?"

"We'll let them sleep."

Brendon and Ryan got their breakfasts and took them outside to eat, zigzagging through the trenches. They found a quiet step and curled over their plates next to each other.

Brendon swung his feet back and forth. He was enjoying being alone with Ryan. They talked about the weather, because it was sunny and warm, for once, and about the other kind of weather.

"The Germans must be sleeping in today," Brendon remarked. Only the Allies were sending out the morning hate. It was an all-around pleasant kind of day.

"I was thinking," Ryan said, scraping at his empty plate with his spoon, "that when we go on R&R next time we could stop by Casualty Clearing Station 33."

"I think that would be a good idea," Brendon said at once. He'd been waiting for Ryan to suggest it. "Spencer will be pleased to see us, and he'll pretend to be hugely embarrassed."

Ryan smiled at Brendon, squinting a bit in the bright light, and Brendon grinned. Stuff the war, Ryan had _smiled_.

~ ~ ~ ~

Frank was legitimately released from the ward the next day. "I'm due back at the second lines to continue training new sappers from America," he told the Ways with a sharp little grin, "but they won't notice if I take a little extra days to get there."

Which was how Gerard and Mikey ended up in Paris with Frank. There was very little cheer left anywhere in France but what there was was in Paris. And it was nice to just breath air that didn't smell like a latrine or a charnel house. They drove the ambulance, which broke down only once. Gerard chose to believe this meant Betsy was on their side— she just couldn't help breaking down sometimes, poor thing.

There was very little to see in terms of sight-seeing, but Mikey had somehow acquired a camera and they took their picture in front of the Eiffel Tower, and went up to the top. They had to walk, so by the time they got back down they made their way to the nearest open brasserie on rubbery legs. They played cards for cigarettes and chips and smoked and laughed until the owner threw them out so he could go to bed.

They parked Betsy in a _place_ and slept in the back. Paris got quiet at night. Dark and quiet, so much so that Gerard had trouble sleeping and went out for a smoke. They were in a residential _quartier_ and Gerard was the only one on the street. He closed his eyes, inhaled smoke, and savored the feel of an innocent night on his skin.

"Can't sleep?" Frank's voice behind him made Gerard jump, then shiver, a little.

"Just… enjoying a quiet night." Gerard waved his hand to encompass the quiet square

Frank was wearing his uniform trousers and a long underwear shirt. It was thin and tight and Gerard could visually trace the muscles underneath. Frank had his hands in his pockets and leaned against the corner of the ambulance. He was watching Gerard like he did whenever he was quiet. Gerard could hardly look at him.

"Want a smoke?"

"Sure."

Gerard lit the fag in his own mouth, then held it out for Frank. Frank took it and placed it in his mouth with a kind of careful deliberation that made it hard for Gerard to breath. Frank had hardly spoken, but the night wasn't quiet or peaceful anymore. It was all Gerard's fault, of course. He was annoyed and impatient with himself; he couldn't even enjoy a spur-of-the-moment road trip, a random night in Paris, the sort of thing any other young man would be envious of. Not that he wasn't enjoying it, but he always had to make it more complicated than it had to be. Honestly, he was a fucking heroine in a Hardy novel.

"Centime for your thoughts," Frank said. "That's right, isn't it?"

Gerard smiled ruefully at the ground as he stubbed out his cigarette. "It's right, but they're not worth that much."

Frank smiled around his cigarette, slow and lazy. "I don't believe you."

Gerard turned to face Frank. Frank was slightly smaller than Gerard, prettier than a girl, nice, friendly, brave, the most dangerous person Gerard had ever met. Gerard couldn't want the things he wanted, that was made clear to him when he was sixteen. Gerard was never so tempted with wanting as he was by Frank.

"I want to come back to France," he said, because words were a useful wall. "Sometime when there's not a war, when Paris is what it's supposed to be, you know?"

Frank nodded. "I never went to Paris before the war, either." Gerard must have looked surprised because Frank shrugged one shoulder. "Corsica's far from here. My family wasn't exactly rich. They came over from Sicily when they were young and immigrants never have so much money."

He looked a little anxious about revealing this, so Gerard smiled and said, "Yeah, I know. We never had a lot of money either. And my grandparents came over from Italy, so."

"Yeah?" Frank smiled at him.

"Neither Mikey or I had left the country before this."

"I'd only been to Sicily," Frank admitted.

"Hey, you're still one up on us, then."

Frank finished his cigarette and pulled out his own stash, offering one to Gerard first. Once they were lit, he asked, "Why did you and Mikey come over here? You've been here a long time, yes? Not your war then."

"In 1915 VAD recruiters came over to the States. I heard one guy talk in New York City. According to him, we could help save civilization without shedding blood. Volunteer Ambulance Drivers of courage and conviction were desperately needed to give the Allied forces a fighting chance against the Hun. As long as you could drive an automobile and carry half a stretcher, you could be a hero of the Western Front, carrying injured men out of No Man's Land to safety so they could be stitched up and returned to fighting form."

Gerard huffed something much too bitter to be a laugh. "To be honest, even at the time I knew it was mostly bullshit. But Gallipoli hadn't happened yet, and of course I knew the front lines were worse than they were making out but… I didn't know it would be— I didn't know it would be _this_. I didn't know it would be the fucking Somme and— and Passchendaele. Jesus. Or that most of them, the soldiers, don't get better, even if you do get them out of No Man's Land alive." Gerard was breathing hard. He forced himself to take a drag. "Sorry." Frank shrugged it off. "I had a job, back home. I'd been to college and everything, and I had a job, but it didn't _mean_ anything. It kept me in food and clothes and paper and pencils—"

"Paper and pencils?" Frank interrupted.

Gerard was about to say " _papier et crayons_ " when he realized Frank probably knew what the _words_ meant. "Oh, uh, I'm an artist. Semi-professionally. Not really. I drew little cartoons for the newspaper, for ads or illustrations."

"I knew it!" Frank said, pointing at him and jumping a little with excitement. "I could tell!"

"No you couldn't!" Gerard startled.

Frank crossed his arms. "M. Way, I am _français et italiano_. I know a fucking artist when I see one."

Gerard was surprised into a laugh. He ducked his head, not wanting Frank to see how pleased he was. He let his hair fall in front of his face. It was getting long again, he needed to get it cut soon.

Frank tucked a strand of hair behind Gerard's ear. Gerard was never cutting his hair again.

" _Artiste,_ " Frank said, to tease him.

"Fine," Gerard sighed.

"Sorry," Frank said after a moment. "You were saying?"

"Um," Gerard groped wildly for the lost train of thought. "Right. Yeah. So, my life was pointless and I didn't care about being a hero but I thought a chance to save lives— to actually make a difference like that, that was what I wanted. Needed, even. So I signed up. I didn't expect Mikey to come with me, but I should have known better, I guess. He's always followed me everywhere." He sent a fond glance back at the dark interior of the ambulance, where Mikey was snoring softly. Their parents had panicked, begged Mikey not to go, too.

"I'm really glad he came," Gerard said softly. "I wouldn't have made it without him." Several times over.

"Are you sorry you came?"

Gerard made a face and wiggled his hand in the French "so-so" gesture. "Sometimes. But in the end it's still— it's still more _real_ than any other part of my life, you know? I never think about leaving, either."

"Well," Frank said reasonably, "no. You can't leave them here once you see it."

"Yeah," Gerard sighed. "I'm not that kind of coward and I'm not a traitor, I guess. I guess I can say that."

"You can," Frank said firmly.

At some point, they'd sat down on the bumper. Frank was really close. How had they gotten so close? How could Frank be this close without Gerard noticing?

Gerard had to look away. "And I have saved lives. I don't know how long they lasted after we pulled them out, but we did save them for at least a little while. So at least I know we've made a difference, too."

"So it's worth it."

"Some of them don't want to be saved." Gerard didn't blame them. It wasn't even having to go back to the trenches, for a lot of them, it was just having to live like _that._

"Hey," Frank nudged him. "That's not your problem, it's theirs." Gerard nodded, because he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"I used to be a Sous-Lieutenant— Second Lieutenant. But I was in the mutiny and got— busted?— back down."

"Really?" Gerard gave him a sideways look. "I thought you looked like a rebel."

Frank giggled and nudged him again. Gerard nudged back.

They ended up slumped together. It was very late, or very early, and Gerard was feeling loose and something like happy. Frank turned his head a little, and nudged Gerard's face with his nose. Gerard felt warm all over. "Well. Do you have a girl at home or what?"

 _Or what._ Gerard felt feverish as cold panic followed the warm flush. He sat up quickly. "No. And we should actually get some sleep, now, because Mikey can't drive the whole way— he's not very good at driving, really, and we should go to bed— go to sleep— sleep, now, so." Gerard stood up quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers nervously. Frank was still sitting, and Gerard couldn't make out his expression in the shadow, but then Frank shrugged and climbed into the ambulance.

They lay on their separate cots and Gerard listened to Frank and Mikey breathing. Mikey was still asleep, Frank wasn't. Gerard thought he'd be too busying freaking out to sleep, but he fell asleep almost right away. Frank was still awake.

~ ~ ~ ~

"So you know how we had those ridiculously hush-hush top secret orders about the last attack?" Pete said.

"I recall," Patrick said.

"Well, I heard from Major Butch Walker, who heard it from—"

"You can skip all that part, really."

"I just want you to know how reliable it is!"

Patrick sighed like he was doing Pete a huge favor. "Who was the ultimate source?"

"General Simpson!"

"All right, so we've established it's something that may or may not have been said by General Simpson. Continue."

"Thank you, Lt. Stump. Anyway, like I was saying, Major Walker said that the word up and down the line is that the advance _kicked ass_."

"Really, sir." Patrick looked and sounded less than impressed. Or interested.

Pete frowned. "Pa— Lt. Stump, this is important! We've done _really well_. This was the best Allied advance _since the beginning of the war_."

"Really?" And now Patrick was impressed. Impressed and intrigued.

"Really," Pete said. He sat on the front of his desk, legs swinging. He loved it when Patrick hung on his words.

"I thought we were just, you know," Patrick waved his hand around vaguely. "Fucking around, like the rest of the war."

"I know! It's pretty fucking impressive, isn't it, what you can do without realizing!"

"I— yeah, sir, I guess it is."

Patrick made Pete go to bed shortly after that, and Pete tried to go to sleep, he really did, but they were all going to be moving up— moving closer to the edge of France, and Pete was busy and awake wondering if they'd get to Germany, and what they'd do there if they did go, and what Berlin was like.

It wasn't exactly warm in his room but the air was stuffy and Pete hated that. He was bored and restless and suffocating, and at least if he got up he could wander around outside and find someone to talk to. Maybe Gabe was still up. He wished Mikey Way was around. Mikey was awesome at late night conversations.

Pete got to the curtain over his doorway when he realized Patrick was still awake in the other room. He thought about joining him, but then Patrick began to hum, and then to sing. It took Pete a moment to recognize the tune and melody, but then he shut his eyes and leaned with his back against the dirt wall to listen to Patrick sing "Waltzing Matilda," which they'd learned from the ANZACs who'd helped train them. Pete was pretty sure Patrick only understood every other word, but he was singing like he meant it. Pete breathed as quietly as possible— partly because Patrick wouldn't sing if he knew he had an audience, and partly so as not to miss a note. Pete no longer needed to get outside. He didn't need anything other than to listen to Patrick sing. He stayed still for a long time, letting Patrick's voice take him somewhere far away, far above and beyond this dirt and these trenches and this war.

When Patrick's voice finally died off and his light turned off, Pete was still standing, waiting. He opened his eyes and looked at nothing in particular in the dark. He couldn't lose Patrick. No matter what happened, Pete was going to keep Patrick for the rest of his life, one way or the other.

Pete had pretty much already known that Patrick was the most… the most _something_ person he'd ever met. Intriguing, fascinating, adorable, addictive, entertaining, talented, precious, irritating, frustrating… Patrick was the most _everything._ Everything for Pete, anyway. Someday, when the war was over, that would even mean something. Pete would make sure of it.

Pete, nursing a calm core of certainty, returned to bed and had no problem laying still. He was planning, but this time he wasn't thinking at all about Germany.

~ ~ ~ ~

Frank didn't mention any of their conversation at first the next morning. They went for breakfast and then to a bookshop. Gerard bought a few precious issues of _The Spectator_ because they had new poems by Siegfried Sassoon that he wanted to read. Then, at Frank's insistence (and proving the night before had actually happened) they went to a stationary so Gerard could buy drawing pencils and paper. Mikey looked back and forth at Frank and Gerard like he was putting something together, and Gerard wished he would stop.

They were eating lunch before leaving, in a small, shabby cafe on St. Germain when a group of French Red Hats walked in and took a table. Frank grudgingly saluted the officers, who didn't even look at him, and when he sat back down Frank glared fiercely at his plate.

Mikey poked him with a fork. "Is it personal or just the usual?"

Frank grit his teeth. "Personal," he admitted.

Gerard leaned over the table so they wouldn't be overheard. "How much trouble are we in?"

Frank snorted. "I can behave myself if they can." Gerard wasn't sure about that— Frank was stabbing at his plate something fierce— but he leaned back and tried to cram as much food in his mouth as possible.

It was a good idea. When the Red Hats saw them, one of them came over to speak to Frank. "Aren't you that ex-lieutenant Wop from the unpleasantness last year? Didn't you lose your entire regiment for your recklessness?" He was a Capitaine, a French Major. High enough rank to make plenty of trouble for Frank, at least; VADs were paramilitary and therefore basically untouchable.

Mikey leaned over to whisper "What's going on?" to Gerard, so Gerard missed most of Frank's response, but he registered quite a lot of swearing. Also something about pigs, dogs (in conjunction with whores), and something about losing… something… except he didn't have it in the first place.

The Capitaine got quite red-faced, as did his friends, and Gerard nervously prepared himself to be the second in a duel. The Capitaine leaned down in Frank's face. "I knew we should have shot all the traitors. The army doesn't need filthy weak scum like you, even as cannon fodder."

This, from a Rear officer, was patently too much for any front line soldier to take. Frank spit in his face. Gerard was out of his chair in a moment and Mikey followed his lead; across the room, the other officers had also risen.

One of them was shouting, trying to scold Frank. The Capitaine Frank had spit on took a swing but Frank ducked and evaded it easily. He shoved his chair back and kicked the Capitaine in both knees. One of the other Capitaines threw a glass of water at their table. Mikey retaliated in kind.

Frank was clearly about to start wailing on the Capitaine, but if he struck a superior officer… Gerard didn't want to think about it, especially considering Frank's record, so he grabbed Frank by both arms and tried to drag him out of the restaurant. Frank didn't want to go.

During the scuffle, three tables got overturned, and the owner was screaming at them. Frank apologized with a cheerful shout and followed that up by throwing a vase of flowers that was near the door at the Red Hats.

Gerard dragged Frank out into the street, and Mikey shut the door behind them. Frank shrugged Gerard off and this time Gerard let him. He was breathing hard and cursing under his breath. There was still a lot of shouting inside the restaurant, and something else smashed. "Um," Mikey said. "Should we run, you think?"

Gerard exchanged a look with Mikey and Frank, and they turned and ran. Frank was giggling and then Mikey started, too. Gerard wanted to shout at them or at least flail in disbelief but he was busy running and needed all his breath, so he settled for rolling his eyes and tried to not let them see him smile.

By the time they ran out of breath and stumbled to a stop, they were far away and not quite sure where they'd ended up. They were near a cinema though, so they convinced themselves it would a good idea to lie low at a Chaplin picture for awhile.

When they stumbled out, it was raining and much later then they'd meant to leave. They had coffee and paid too much for bread and jam (but it was raspberry and therefore worth any price; the only other choice had been plum and the idea of voluntarily eating plum jam was horrifying) and a bottle of wine for the road.

They headed northeast as fast as they could, trying to beat the storm, smoking and laughing and rehashing their trip. Frank was particularly keen on a blow-by-blow of the brawl, bouncing in his seat and crashing into Gerard and Mikey as he acted it out.

"How are you a sapper?" Gerard burst out, waving one hand around. "How do you stay that quiet and still? Who in their right mind would give you explosives?" Frank roared with laughter and fingered his oddly-shaped eyebrows a little. It was not in the least reassuring.

By Nancy, Frank and Mikey were chattering about the best English war songs when Frank finished a gesture and his hand landed on Gerard's leg. Frank left it there. Gerard had to work more to concentrate on driving, but the warmth generated by Frank's hand seemed to spread throughout his whole body, and he really didn't mind.

~ ~ ~ ~

Wentz had sent Beckett's unit on five days leave. William had become slightly curious about the infamous Nurse Asher and wanted to observe her famous legs for himself (and, although he wouldn't admit it, reassure himself that he was prettier). So he went to Casualty Clearing Station 33 and stalked the nurses until one of them threw him out.

William was wandering around looking for entertainment when he noticed two BEF Captains arguing over a letter. William always enjoyed eavesdropping, so he wandered over to listen.

"You obviously want me to read it," one of the men said. "You've been wavin' it in my face since you got it."

"I have not," the other man said, hunching down in his seat. "And it's private."

"Sassoon's never done anything private in his life," the first man said, and snatched the letter out of the second man's hand.

William waited impatiently for the first man, who actually wasn't bad-looking, to finish reading the letter.

"Nope," he said, tossing it on the table. "Not a bit. Not even leading you on, Owen mate."

The second man— Owen— slumped in his seat. Then he picked up the letter and attempted to rally. "He's just very subtle— you don't understand—"

The first man rolled his eyes. "He writes better love letters to Graves for a lark. I _know_ he writes better love letters to Rivers. I've read 'em."

Owen raised distressed eyes and William decided this was his cue.

"You are in luck, gentlemen," he announced, gliding up to their table. "I am an expert at love letters." And he beamed down at them.

"You're a _Sergeant!_ " Owen said in horror.

"You're an _American_ ," the first man rolled his eyes. "Sod off."

"I can help you," William said earnestly. "I've had considerable success in the past. With helping other people win over their true loves, I mean."

Owen leaned across the table to whisper to the other man. "Is he defective, do you think? Mentally, I mean."

The other man looked at him carefully. William cocked a hip in his direction, and sure enough, the Englishman's stare locked on. William smiled, but not too smugly, because that could be unattractive. Well, not on him, but on some people. "Maybe, maybe not," the British Captain said. Then, to William, he said "I'm Captain Prior. This is Captain Owen. Why don't you have a seat?" His smile was wicked, and William was delighted.

William pulled a chair up to their table and alighted upon it. "I'm William Beckett," he said. "Delighted to make your acquaintance." He held out his hand to be kissed.

Prior smirked and kissed his hand. Actually, he nipped the back of William's hand. William shivered. He was very rarely wrong, but of course it was always nice to _know_ one was right.

Owen looked appalled. It wasn't a good look on him, poor duck. William patted his shoulder. "Now, what's your problem?"

"He's in looooove," Prior drawled. His accent had gone all posh and high, and he was probably doing it to make fun of Owen. "But his boy won't take any notice of him. Not that kind of notice, anyway."

"Prior!" Owen cringed and looked around. No one was paying them any attention.

"What?" Prior mocked. "We're all friends here." Prior was _mean._ William was intrigued.

William tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He'd had to cut it when he first joined up but he hadn't let anyone touch it since then.

"Have you written him love poetry?" William asked seriously.

Prior roared with laughter. Owen scrunched down in his seat and was clearly trying to make himself disappear.

"I assure you, Sergeant Beckett," Prior said, "he's done nothing but."

"Grand gestures?" William asked. " _Preuves d'amour?_ "

"He _came back to France_ ," Prior once again answered for Owen. "When he didn't have to. Doesn't get any madder or grander than that."

William pursed his lips, checked to make sure Prior was looking at his mouth, then licked his lips and spoke to Owen. "Have you tried writing _anti-_ love poetry?"

"What?" both Owen and Prior said.

"To make him jealous! You know. Hard to get. Something like 'I'm not gonna waste these words—'"

Prior threw up his hands and spoke over their heads. "Not another bloody poet!"

William pouted. "What's wrong with poets?"

Prior rolled his eyes. "What isn't wrong with poets?"

"Look," Owen said, fumbling to fold up his letter, making new creases in his haste, "I appreciate you chaps trying to help, but… I need to go. Do. Something. _Anything_."

Owen tried to look dignified as he ran away, but his main interest was definitely running away.

William tsked and frowned after him. "Poor thing."

"Maybe he'll take your advice," Prior said. "It couldn't hurt, since he hasn't got anything to lose anyway."

"You're mean," William announced. There wasn't any condemnation. William didn't particularly _mind_.

"I'm a roit bastard," Prior agreed. "Now _I've_ got a problem I'm thinking you can help me sort."

William widened his eyes. "A little problem? Or a big problem?"

"I'm halfway offended," Prior said. "But I'll let you be the judge of that."

"You may call me Bill," William announced.

Prior's eyes flashed. "And I'm Billy. Isn't that convenient?"

"It is nice when you don't have to worry about names," William agreed. He smiled to show his dimples. Clearing Station 33 was the _best._

~ ~ ~ ~

Betsy broke down three times between Nancy and the front, the second time costing them two and a half hours. It was long after dark by the time they finally found the section of lines Frank was due in. They stood around the ambulance for awhile, smoking and finishing off their food.

"Thank you for that," Frank smiled at them. "It was the most fun I have had in years."

Gerard blushed and forgot to say anything, although Mikey said "Us too. Anytime, comrade." He shook hands with Frank and shot Gerard a look. "I'm sure we'll see you soon."

Frank beamed, and though he spoke to Mikey, he didn't take his eyes off Gerard. "I really hope so! Please, don't be strangers! Come tomorrow!"

Gerard giggled nervously and nodded. "We'll see. Maybe. I'd like to, you know, I just…" Gerard realized he was rambling. "All right. I hope so, I mean."

They stood around for another awkward second before mumbling goodbyes and good nights, and then Gerard and Mikey climbed back in the ambulance— Mikey driving this time— and Frank cranked the starter for them and waved as they drove away.

Gerard was really very grateful that Mikey didn't say anything on the ride back. Casualty Clearing Station 33 was a hive of light and activity, and Gerard and Mikey exchanged concerned glances.

As soon as they pulled up and climbed out, Schechter appeared out of the office tent, running full speed for them.

"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU FUCKING FUCKERS BEEN?" Schechter shouted. He was waving his arms as he ran now. "I've been looking for you all over the fucking place. I thought you were DEAD!"

"Sorry," Gerard said and tried to smile, but Schechter waved a hand in his face.

"Don't try that 'oops' shit with me, Way. I'm going to kill you. But first we need to move."

"Move?" Gerard asked blankly.

"Yes, move. Where the fuck have you been? Haven't you heard we're moving CCS 33?" When both Gerard and Mikey continued to look blank— and, in Mikey's case, bored— Schechter added "Because of the advance?"

Gerard paled. "The Germans are advancing again?" He'd thrown up when they'd retaken Passchendaele. This fucking _war_ —

Schechter rolled his eyes so hard Gerard was surprised they didn't fall out. It had to hurt, at least. " _Our_ advance, the Allied advance. I know it's hard for you to believe— and okay, yeah, actually it is hard to believe. We're advancing! That last attack— we got so far we need to move the CCS up. Because we actually have fucking support for this advance and—" if Schechter had been capable of tears, he might have teared up at this point. As it was, he just waved his arms around again. "We are advancing! So move your asses and move some fucking patients!"

Gerard jumped, Mikey shifted, and they went off at double-time to start collecting patients.

"Figures," Mikey said.

"I know," Gerard sighed. The one time during the whole fucking war they actually leave their post and something happens.

~ ~ ~ ~

A rookie private was hovering around the door of their dugout. Brendon, the only one in, got up to meet him. "What is it?"

"Er, here. Sorry."

It was a yellow army telegram. Brendon had reached out to take it before registering what it was, and now he almost dropped it, he wanted to get rid of it so badly. It was a mistake, it had to be a mistake. He looked up to yell at the rookie private, make him admit he'd got the wrong dugout, wrong unit, this didn't belong to them. But the little worm was gone, and for once Piccadilly Circus was quiet.

"Ryan!" Brendon shouted automatically. Then he winced and wished he could take it back. _Don't come, Ryan_ , he thought. _Please don't ever see this._

But if this was about Spencer— if Spencer was gone— Brendon would have to tell Ryan. Better tell him than make him read it off a soggy paper. But Brendon didn't want to be the person Ryan associated forever with losing Spencer. Brendon couldn't take that, knowing that for the rest of their lives Ryan would look at Brendon and see the absence of Spencer. That wasn't what Ryan was supposed to see when he looked at Brendon, not that at all.

Brendon whimpered then clapped a hand over his mouth. Could he make Jon tell Ryan? No, he knew, because someone would have to tell Jon, oh God, he'd have to tell Jon _and_ Ryan and neither of them would ever speak to him again. Maybe he could make Zack tell Ryan. Ryan probably wouldn't kill Zack. Possibly nothing could kill Zack.

Brendon scrunched himself into a corner of the dugout, but it was too late.

"Brendon?" Ryan was standing in the door, all silhouetted against the light. There were strands of light interwoven with Ryan's hair and this wasn't _fair_. "Did you call me?"

"I—" Brendon looked down at the telegram. And for the first time, he actually read it. "Oh!

"What is it?" Ryan walked over, his voice increasing in urgency. "Bren, what is it? What do you have?"

"It's—" Brendon half raised the telegram. Ryan saw it and froze, in mid-step even.

"It's Tom," Brendon said, voice shaking for a lot of reasons, some of which felt like treason. "Tom Conrad. Ryan, where's Jon?"

 

Jon cried. Jon cried, and Ryan sat with his arms around him. Zack brought them a bottle of whiskey and then sat in front of the door, turning everyone else away. Brendon sat across from Jon and Ryan, arms around his knees. He hadn't grown up with a best friend like Jon and Ryan had. He'd grown up with actual brothers but he hadn't come to war with any of them. Ryan and Jon and Spencer were his best friends, but he hadn't really known them that long, hadn't spent most of his life with them (just the most important part), and Ryan could imagine Jon's loss much better than Brendon. He'd lost Brent but that still wasn't the same, and besides, they'd all lost Brent together. Brendon felt useless and clumsy and he didn't know what to say. Even Dylan was better. Dylan just kept rubbing at Jon's ankles and wrapping his tail around Jon's leg.

"I don't understand," Jon said, over and over. "He was on leave. How could he get sick?"

Brendon looked at the telegram, which he still had. "TYPHUS," it said. "It was— typhus?"

"That doesn't make any sense," Jon snapped.

Brendon looked down and blinked very quickly. Of course Jon was upset. Jon could snap at him if he wanted right now; Brendon didn't really mind.

"He was gone for _five days_ ," Jon continued. "Ty— it doesn't work that fast, it doesn't! It must have been something else."

Ryan and Brendon exchanged a look. Ryan was petting Jon's hair. "We can ask," he said quietly. "When we go. To the Casualty Clearing Station. We'll ask the doctors there."

Jon turned his head to look at Brendon. "Bren, hey, Bden." His eyes were big and wet, and Brendon forgave him everything ever. Jon Walker should never look like that. "Come 'ere," Jon said, and held out a hand. Brendon flew across the room and threw himself on Jon and Ryan, wiggling into nonexistent spaces.

He and Ryan managed to settle out a way to wrap around Jon. Brendon pressed a kiss to the dirty cloth over Jon's shoulder, then to the hair by Jon's ear. He didn't say it would be okay.

 

When Beckett's unit finally came back, a man down, Ryan and Brendon and Zack walked Jon over and left him for awhile. Jon had been with Beckett's unit almost as long as he'd been with Ryan's — he and Tom had come up together in the 504th— and they had all loved Tom and were grieving him as a brother.

It was lucky they had a lot to keep them busy. The front line had moved, and they were all moving into the former German trenches. The German trenches were posh. They weren't held up at odd angles by rusting metal and packed mud and the odd bit of bone but were properly constructed and dry and there were hardly any rats.

Marching over No Man's Land had been a curious mixture of exhilarating and horrifying, and Brendon tried to forget it all as soon as it happened, although he sometimes saw piles of corpses when he closed his eyes. When they reached the German trenches Zack had sighed, remarked that he hadn't thought he'd ever be back here, and then taken them to the nicest dugout. Jon had carried Dylan with them, although Dylan hadn't been very happy about it. No one had dared suggest Jon leave him behind.

They settled into their new dugout. It had real bunk beds and built-in shelves to put things on. Ryan spent some time carefully arranging his books on them. A couple of German books had been left behind, and Ryan tried to read them until Zack took them away because Ryan kept pestering him to translate words.

Jon showed Dylan around their new home while Brendon laid out their beds and tried to fix the table (Zack helped, so it actually got fixed). They were wondering how late dinner would be (Suarez had announced at breakfast that it took him just as long to move as it took them so they could all shut the fuck up) when Lt. Trohman stopped by for a headcount.

"Still four of you, well done," he said, consulting his chart. Brendon and Jon exchanged a glance. Ryan wasn't paying attention, and they couldn't actually speak to Trohman themselves without permission. "And a cat. Nice. And you're the Nevada unit, right?"

Ryan answered him this time. Jon leaned toward Brendon to whisper "Should we tell him about Zack?"

Brendon pouted. "But I want to keep Zack."

"He should be in a POW camp," Jon pointed out. Brendon pouted even harder. Jon sighed and ruffled Brendon's hair. "Fine, we'll keep him." Brendon beamed at him. Jon tried to smile back, but it didn't quite work.

"Hey," Lt. Trohman said, "you guys are due for leave, aren't you?"

~ ~ ~ ~

Gerard and Mikey and the other VADs worked through the night and the following morning moving patients, and it was well after lunch by the time they got a real break. They ate and then slept in the back of their ambulance, since their dorm tents hadn't been erected yet.

The new CCS 33 wasn't as sturdy as the old one because it was expected they would move again. It was weird to be somewhere else, and if Gerard didn't pay attention, he would sometimes drive down the wrong road, heading for the old location until he noticed or remembered. Mikey wasn't any better at remembering than Gerard was.

"I liked it better when we were dug in a bit more," Dr. Ray Toro sighed. Gerard and Mikey were sitting with him and Dr. Bob in the canteen.

"The shots were at head level," Dr. Bob pointed out.

"We never got shot at like that," Ray objected. "Except for that one time, I mean. But we could duck out of the way of shrapnel when we were dug in."

Dr. Bob nodded. "That is true."

Mikey started on a rambling story that probably didn't have much to do with the conversation and a lot to do with catching the attention of Nurse Simmons, who had just sat down at the next table. Mikey was on a quest to find out her first name. It was a really common quest with nurses, though, who weren't allowed to tell, and Nurse Simmons hadn't seemed impressed yet.

Ray started rereading the latest letter from his wife, and Dr. Bob nodded along with Mikey's story and may or may not have been paying attention. Gerard had been drawing since he'd first sat down.

He hadn't drawn very much for several years, and now it was like the proverbial floodgate had opened. That, and he was trying to use up his nice, new paper as quickly as possible, before it got ruined by rain or mud or blood (or coffee, but that had been a hazard all of Gerard's life and he pretty much didn't even see coffee stains anymore). He really had needed new pencils— most of the stash he'd brought over had been broken, lost, burnt, or were stubs. It was nice to have real pencils and smooth, unblemished paper again, and Gerard found that once again he couldn't stop drawing.

Rather a disproportionate amount of the sketches were about Frank. Gerard didn't lie to himself about that, although he was ready and willing to lie to anyone else, up to and including Mikey. He tried to disguise them, make the subject Frank-from-a-distance or Frank-in-the-rain or Frank-marching-in-formation, but Frank always ended up in them and to Gerard he stood out like a beacon. Probably because Gerard spent more time on him, since he was the only one Gerard was drawing from memory, as opposed to making him up, and Gerard tended to be a perfectionist about things like the exact shape of Frank's nose or the curve of his lip, and at what angle his ridiculous hair fell into his eyes.

Gerard tried to hide the sketches from Mikey but of course that just made Mikey want to see them more. Gerard wondered if maybe he secretly wanted Mikey to snoop because Gerard did, in fact, want to talk about Frank. He wanted to talk about Frank _a lot_ , and all the time, because at this point most of Gerard's thoughts involved Frank in one form or the other. He ate breakfast and wondered what Frank was eating, when it rained he wondered if Frank was wet or dry (as dry as anyone got on the Western Front), definitely didn't think about Frank in the bath house, and above all, Gerard wondered when he'd get to see Frank again, and what would happen when they did meet. He second guessed his second guesses and tried not to imagine too much, because that was a form of hope and hope like that was not for guys like him.

Gerard had all these thoughts swirling in his head all the time, and he wasn't used to thinking about things and not talking them out. When Mikey teased him about Frank, at least he got to talk about him and hear his name and remember that Frank really existed and Gerard hadn't just made him up. It made Gerard blush and stammer and Mikey laugh.

Gerard didn't mind because it was Mikey, even though Mikey had no room to give Gerard shit after that ridiculous affair he'd had with Captain Wentz. Gerard still didn't totally understand what had happened there, just that one day they _had_ to sneak Pete out of the hospital and Pete was following Mikey around reciting love poetry and the next they were "just friends." It probably had something to do with Mikey meeting Nurse Simmons and Wentz getting his new lieutenant at about the same time, but Gerard really didn't want to know the details.

"Excuse me? Mr. Way? I'm— I'm Sergeant Ryan Ross. You rescued a friend of mine, Private Spencer Smith?"

Gerard looked up, blinking to readjust his eyes. A sergeant who looked about twelve was standing next to him, all big eyed and anxious. And, for some reason, he had a chain of poppies around his helmet.

"What?" Gerard said.

"I remember," Mikey said. "The sardines in the shell hole."

"Oh!" An image of that rescue floated into Gerard's mind. He hadn't ever seen them in daylight, as far as he knew. Or covered in flowers. "Right. I remember you." He'd remember him _now_ , that was for sure.

"Well, you said you were taking my— Sp— Private Smith here. We were wondering if you knew where he was?" Sergeant Ross bit his lip.

Gerard let his gaze travel past Ross to encompass the _we_. Two more of the sardines stood there, looking anxious, and with them was… was that the same Alleyman? What was he still doing with them? He looked like a nursemaid out with her charges, down to the pained, tolerant expression on the Jerry's face.

Gerard looked at Mikey, who raised an unhelpful eyebrow. "Well, he survived the trip," Gerard remembered. "But I don't really know any more, sorry."

Sergeant Ross had sagged with relief when he heard Smith survived, but now he exchanged an anxious glance with the rest of his odd little band. "Well, thank you. Sorry for disturbing you. I guess we'll just be—"

"Hang on," Ray said kindly. "There's a good chance either I or Dr. Bryar here treated him. Why don't you describe him for us?"

Gerard tuned out most of the rest of the conversation as Ross described his missing man, with additional butted-in comments from his two remaining men.

"I remember him!" Nurse Salpeter leaned over from the table she was sharing with Nurse Simmons. "I remember his smile." The nurses giggled, and Mikey crossed his arms to have a sulk.

"It's pretty memorable," agreed the quiet private with a beard.

"I think he got sent to Calais. But I can check the records for you, if you want?" Nurse Salpeter offered.

Gerard started to tune out again but the quiet bearded private stepped up the table. "I, um, I wanted to ask about someone else, too," he said apologetically. "Private Tom Conrad. I just got a telegram that he'd— he'd passed, of typhus. But he was only gone five days— it just seems really fast. Is there— I was hoping you might remember him. If there's something else you can tell me?"

He sounded so sad that Gerard looked up at him and paid attention.

Dr. Bob looked thoughtful. "We haven't lost anyone to typhus around here," he said. "I'm sure of that." He exchanged a significant look with Toro. "There's something going around— some kind of bad pneumonia, maybe, that strikes very fast. Officially, it doesn't exist, so this doesn't go any farther than us, understand?" Bob paused to give everyone a very stern look. Bob didn't mess around with stern looks, and everyone nodded silently. "It kills previously healthy people, strong and young people, fast. I remember your Tom Conrad because I swear he had a cold at the most, and then he got dizzy and started coughing up blood. And that was it."

"What?" Tom Conrad's friend said. "What do you mean, that's it?"

Dr. Bob shrugged. "I'm sorry, kid, but he dropped on the spot and that's really all we know. It was fucking shocking. Normally I'd do an autopsy and, you know, investigate and shit, but there's no time here. No time for the dead when there's still living to save."

Ray cleared his throat. "The other thing— and this _really_ doesn't leave this table— is that the army doesn't want us to look into it. They don't want to admit it exists, they don't want to deal with it. None of the Allied armies want to know about it."

"That's not right!" Gerard objected. "That can't just ignore something they don't want to deal with! You can't send men off to be killed _and_ treat them like animals or they'll mutiny— and they all had every right to mutiny, at Etaples and the whole fucking French army, and it'll happen again if the brass is going to continue to be this fucking incompetent and continue to waste lives just because they can't imagine doing anything else. Four fucking years and they're still trying to fight the war the same way, which leads to nothing but more piles of corpses, and now they still think they can control access to information? How do they think that's going to help them? If they don't acknowledge it, it's not true? Isn't that fucking convenient. They can tell people at home whatever bullshit they want, but everyone here, everyone in the _actual_ fucking war, knows what's actually going on or is gonna find out real soon the hard way. If there's some awful fucking disease that's going to start sending people West, I think we're gonna find out about it sooner rather than later. Motherfucker."

Everyone was staring at him. That happened a lot.

"They owe it to their soldiers to be honest!" Gerard insisted.

"Since when?" Mikey asked quietly.

Gerard opened his mouth, but Mikey nudged him and he shut it again. He'd ranted about this many times, as had every soldier on the Front, and Gerard suddenly felt too exhausted to continue. All that stupidity over and over was wearying. And this poor private looked like he was going to cry, and Gerard respected that he still could.

"Come on, Jon," the other private said quietly, and tugged at his friend's sleeve.

"Thank you, doctors, for all your help," he said, and let his friends lead him away. Nurse Salpeter went with them, to help track down their missing mate.

They were all silent for a moment. Gerard looked down at his sketch of Frank. He picked up his pencil, then set it down.

Ray propped his chin on his fist. "You know what it's like," he said thoughtfully. "It's like influenza."

"Influenza doesn't kill soldiers," Dr. Bob said. "It kills old people and babies."

"But if it did," Ray said, "if it did kill soldiers, then it would look like the 'flu, right?"

"It sounds like TB," Mikey said. "I mean, coughing up blood."

Dr. Bob shook his head "Tuberculosis takes years to get to the coughing up blood stage. We would have known if he'd had such an advanced case."

"It sounds like the Black Plague," Gerard said.

This time Ray shook his head. His hair was starting to get a bit out of control again, and it bounced and flew around his face. "Plague kills rats before it kills people. And our rats are doing just fine, you may have noticed. Only the people are dying. As if there isn't enough out here killing people."

~ ~ ~ ~

"He could be in England by now," Jon said. He sounded both sad and hopeful. Brendon understood— England seemed really safe but also really far away. "Why else would they send him to Calais?" Jon continued.

Brendon, Jon, and Zack were huddled around a large, water-stained and probably hopelessly outdated map of France, the only one they could find. Ryan was dividing his attention between the map and a railroad timetable, one hand in his hair, causing it to stick up at a variety of unlikely angles.

"If we could just be sure the trains would run on time—" Ryan began.

Zack shook his head. "Trains don't run on time. Not before war even. Only in Germany do trains run on time." There was silence after this announcement of doom.

"Maybe if I talked to Captain Wentz," Ryan tried again. "And he gave us an extra day… all we'd really need is one more…"

"We could try," Brendon suggested tentatively, but what he was really thinking was that by the time they got back to the front and found Wentz and talked to him, they'd need two extra days. That was a lot to ask, to lose three able-bodied men.

"We don't even know if he's in England," Jon sighed. He looked at Brendon, and Brendon realized they were thinking the same thing. "If Spencer was here," Jon said, "he wouldn't let us do it."

Ryan scrunched up his face in anger. "He's not here!" he shouted. "Spencer's not here and that's…" Ryan broke off and turned his back on them, hunching into himself.

Brendon and Jon exchanged another look. "We could go to Calais," Jon said. "We could just go and see."

Ryan spun around and stared at the map, as if glowering at it would rearrange France. "It would be a long trip," he muttered.

"We don't mind, you know us," Brendon piped up quickly.

"Yeah," Ryan said slowly. Then he seemed to make a decision. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. "No. What we need is real R&R. Real food, sleeping all night. A trip to Calais would just be more scraping up food and restless nights. It's not good for us, and Spencer would kick our asses when he saw us— kick my ass especially, and that would be bad for him, since he's still injured and all."

Jon snorted but he was smiling. "All right, Ryan. You're right. We'll stay around here. But that's _all_ of us. If you even think about haring off on your own, we'll kick your ass. And we're not injured, so it'll hurt." Jon's voice was still pleasant and he was still smiling but Brendon did not doubt for a moment that he meant it. Hell, Brendon meant it too. He nodded so that Ryan would know.

Ryan looked faintly startled, but then he ducked his head and nodded acknowledgment. Brendon thought Ryan might have even smiled, at least on the inside, but he wouldn't put it in writing.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was almost a week before Gerard could arrange to be back near Frank's section. He left Mikey stalking Nurse Simmons at CCS 33 and drove along what remained of the road, singing to himself. The lines were busy, new recruits arriving daily, and Gerard didn't see Frank right away, so he stood outside Betsy and smoked conspicuously. It was still a chilly hour before Frank bounded up out of nowhere, startling Gerard and making him choke on smoke.

Frank laughed and smacked Gerard on the back as he said hello about fifty times and chattered on about other things Gerard missed while he was coughing up a lung. "So it has been torture, seriously, they are completely useless, and I've been standing around, um, how you call it, spinning my thumbs?"

"Twiddling?"

"Twiddle-ing? What kind of word is 'twiddling,' honestly? English! What have you been doing? It's been a long time, I thought you'd be here before this! Is Mikey here? Did you move? I heard you moved. The CCS, I mean."

"Um," Gerard said. "I can't remember. Where should I start?"

Frank giggled, and Gerard suddenly had a moment of panic, wondering if he'd left any drawings of Frank lying around the ambulance where Frank would be sure to find them and then Gerard would die of mortification.

Frank kicked him in both shins.

Gerard jumped. "Ack! What?"

Frank rolled his eyes. "You were gone!" He fluttered his hand in the air, up by his head, apparently implying Gerard's brain had taken flight. "Start answering questions. Just pick one!"

For a moment, Gerard stuttered ineffectually like the shut-in he was in peace time, then managed: "Yes, we moved, and that's why it took me so long to make it back here. Sorry. I wanted to come sooner, but. You know. Mikey's back there, but he sends his greetings and salutations and all."

Frank's expression at that was curious, not something Gerard could read, and he got distracted trying to figure out if Frank's eyes were actually extra-sparkly or if Gerard was just that pathetic.

"It was a long time. I thought…" Frank started, then visibly shook himself. "Nothing. Want to get some food? I think there's still some rata on." Gerard nodded, a tad over-eagerly. It wasn't so much that he wanted to eat but that he was desperate for something to do that didn't include staring at Frank.

They got stew in their Dixies and wandered off. It was pretty nice over here— quiet-ish, and it wasn't raining and there was even a tree someone had staked wire all around for protection, or maybe in a mockery of protection. They sat and looked at the tree, which was losing its leaves. The stew wasn't very good but it was warm and that was enough.

"Did you get in trouble over Paris?" Gerard finally asked.

"Nah," Frank said. "They have no idea I didn't come straight from hospital."

"And, uh, that fight? No problems with that?"

"I haven't been back to French lines yet, you know, actually, so I don't know. But…" Frank spit eloquently on the ground, and Gerard couldn't help smiling.

He nudged Frank with his elbow. "Maybe the guns'll go silent before that catches up to you, huh? At the rate we're going now?"

Frank squinted into the setting sun. "I don't know. I don't know if I believe that. And maybe they'll do post-war courts-martial, anyway."

"They wouldn't! What would be the fucking point of that?"

Frank shrugged, one of those sideways French shrugs Gerard couldn't manage, no matter how he practiced. "What is the fucking point of any of this?"

There was of course no answer for that, so Gerard just propped his elbow on his knee and then his chin on his fist. He thought about sketching the tree. "If they do try and court-martial you," he said, "you should run away with me." Gerard winced. He really wished he sometimes thought about what he was saying before he said it.

"Oh?" Frank had raised his eyebrows. Gerard was having trouble looking him in the face, though.

"Uh, to America. You could come to America. Run. To America. I guess. With me. And Mikey." Gerard wished he was a turtle. It must be nice to completely make your head disappear inside your body. Gerard couldn't manage that, but he was doing the best he could.

Frank nudged Gerard with his elbow, and Gerard was compelled, against his will, to look at Frank. Frank was smiling, just a little, and it wasn't a smile Gerard had seen on Frank before. It was kind of like a smirk, and it should not have been as attractive as it was.

"You're asking me to run away with you?"

Gerard felt all sorts of things, and he did not know what a single one of them was. "If you want," he said, and it was definitely the wrong thing to say and his voice came out all high and squeaky. "I mean if you ever had to— or wanted to leave, whatever— of course you should always feel free to come visit or stay with us. Always welcome. If you ever wanted. I mean, I don't know why you'd really want to come to Jersey but it's near enough to New York and everyone wants to go to New York, I guess, at least once, so you could come and we could go or—"

Frank had been looking at Gerard attentively. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Gerard's. Gerard had still been talking, in the middle of a word, and he just froze, mouth still open. _Frank was kissing him._ Frank. Him. Kissing.

Frank turned his head a little, settling their mouths together a bit more. Gerard slowly started to realize that he could move or something, kiss back, when Frank pulled away. Frank looked uncertain now, and it was rapidly changing to something else, something like horror.

"I—"

"Oh!" Gerard said, because it was the first thing he'd thought when Frank had kissed him and it was just taking his mouth this long to catch up.

A smile started to tumble across Gerard's face, getting steadily wider and brighter. Gerard felt like he was smiling with his whole body, his whole soul.

Frank peeked at him, froze, and then grinned back. And Jesus, Frank's smile. It was the only thing in the entire world that could warm Gerard up.

This time, Gerard kissed Frank.

~~~~

Pete hated writing condolence letters, but he refused Patrick's offers of help. Pete was the captain, he was the one who ordered them to die, it was his responsibility. It wasn't that he put them off, exactly; he just didn't know what to say. He hated writing the same thing over and over, even though that was what everyone did, and it wasn't like the families would know. Hell, they probably expected it. Soldiers were all meant to be the same, right? Wasn't that the whole point of training camp?

Pete hated that part the most, actually, the _sameness_ , and if he had it to do again, he wouldn't have signed up. He'd been drifting and lost and his parents had encouraged him to join up, and this was before the US had entered the war. He liked to think that maybe they wouldn't have been so eager if going to war would be the consequence. But what did anyone at home know, anyway?

"Sir?" Patrick was hovering in the doorway, so Pete stopped his sullen contemplation of the blank sheet of paper and tried to smile for him.

"What is it?"

"It's time for lunch, and you have a dispatch."

Pete held out his hand for the dispatch. "I'm not hungry."

Patrick folded his arms and did not hand over the dispatch. "Lunch is almost over. Sir."

"And I said I'm not hungry."

Patrick moved slightly so that the light glinted off his glasses and Pete couldn't see his eyes. He knew just how to do it because Pete hated it. "The dispatch will be in the mess. Sir."

Patrick disappeared out the door. Pete gaped after him for a moment before standing up and yelling "Effrontery! Effrontery and gall!"

Patrick was playing with him. Patrick never played with him. Pete certainly couldn't help being intrigued, and as much as he would have liked to be stubborn, his feet seemed to make the decision to go around his desk all on their own.

He really wasn't hungry, but if following Patrick to the mess would make Patrick happy, well, it wasn't the furthest Pete would go to make Patrick happy.

It was raining a little outside, which made Pete remember his hat, so he'd completely lost sight of Patrick by the time he was actually on his way to the mess. The mess was less crowded than he'd expected; it really must be the end of lunch shift. Patrick was talking to Suarez and Blackinton like he hadn't a care in the world.

Pete stood by the door but Patrick didn't sit down, and finally looked around, saw Pete, scowled, and turned back around.

"Fine," Pete grumbled, and crossed the mess, trying to shove tables and benches out of his way, but without much success. He icily accepted the plate Suarez had already prepared for him and sat down across from Patrick at an isolated table.

Patrick stared at him.

Pete took a big, showy bite and chewed with his mouth open.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Was that so hard? Sir."

"Happy now?" Pete said.

"Here." Patrick slid the dispatch across the table. Pete dropped his fork to read it.

"Aw, shit," he said.

Patrick leaned across the table. "How bad is it?"

Pete carefully folded the paper and tucked it in a pocket inside his uniform jacket. "New offensive. Aren't we the lucky ones?" Pete started shoveling the rest of the food into his mouth without really thinking about it; he just wanted something to do.

"It is what we're here for," Patrick pointed out.

Pete waved this fact away.

"You said the last one went well. Maybe this one will, too?"

Pete poked at some mystery meat. "Run away with me?"

Patrick froze. Pete was watching out of the corner of his eye. "You mean, like, desert?" Patrick asked in a whisper.

Pete shrugged. "No. Forget it."

Pete couldn't stop thinking about the advance. He finished his condolence letters without really knowing what he wrote, supervised parade, ate whatever Patrick put in front of him for dinner, and lost badly in a card game with Andy and Joe.

"What are you doing, sir?" Patrick asked when they were alone again.

Pete rolled a pen across his desk slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on it. "I don't want to send anyone else over the top, Patrick. If they die it's my fault. And I don't want anyone else to die. It's like— they're my friends, you know, and I'm condemning them to death. Or disfigurement or God knows what else."

"It's not you, er, Captain Wentz. No one thinks of it like that, like it's you getting them killed or in danger. We're all here taking orders."

"Yeah," Pete muttered, "but I have to give them, too." Pete startled when Patrick put a hand on his shoulder, and Pete looked up him, wide-eyed.

"Orders are orders," Patrick said. "And we all do what we have to to get out alive."

"Yeah," Pete said. "Okay. Right. But _Verdun?_ Why, for the love of God, why Verdun?"

~~~~

If there were a Cloud Ten, Gerard was on it. He and Frank had kissed and kissed until it got dark and a nearby light had come on. They'd moved around the emplacement, to push each other into whatever dark corner was handy, giggling and breathless, and kiss some more until Gerard, at least, didn't know where he was and didn't much care. What he did care about was feeling Frank's muscles move between bone and skin under Gerard's hands, how hot he felt wherever they were pressed together, Frank's fingers tangled in Gerard's hair. Frank had long eyelashes that brushed against Gerard's cheek, and Gerard was totally and completely besotted.

They snuck around constantly. Every moment they were alone, someone was pushing the other up against a wall. The only downside to their present situation was the commute. It was an hour and a half drive on a good day. Not that it wasn't worth it, but it seriously cut into their time. "You need to get assigned over here more," Frank complained.

"You need to get assigned closer to CCS 33," Gerard answered. All the extra driving was making Schechter suspicious. It was also making Gerard a touch cranky. Not that this prevented him from feeling up Frank— and it certainly didn't stop him from getting felt up— so it wasn't usually much of an issue. Today, though, no sooner had Gerard arrived than a "Jerry up!" call had gone out, so now they were huddled in an air raid shelter with fifty other men. It was pitch black and much too crowded for making out, although their fingers were intertwined on the bench between them.

"I guess you don't mind the dark," Gerard whispered, leaning his head against Frank's.

"I got over it," Frank whispered. "And when I'm down there, working? There's no space to think about anything else."

"The dark is good for telling secrets in," Gerard said thoughtfully.

"I like the open air better," Frank murmured. Gerard squeezed his hand.

Someone started singing some sappy home-front song Gerard didn't know, but after a few lines he was thankfully hushed up by some vocal opposition.

There were a few moments of indistinct voices, but there wasn't anything better to do, so someone started singing "Oh It's A Lovely War," which was obviously a superior song, and Gerard didn't hesitate to join in.

 _"Who wouldn't be a solider eh?  
Oh it's a shame to take the pay;" _

Frank joined in; Gerard could feel it echoing in his own head.

 _"As soon as reveille is gone,  
We feel just as heavy as lead,  
But we never get up till the Sergeant  
Brings us breakfast up to bed." _

Gerard didn't intend to take over the singing; it just kind of happened. _Someone_ had to lead the singing, didn't they? He was sort of embarrassed that the song that immediately came to mind was "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag"; he'd been singing it kind of a lot since meeting Frank. Wasn't hard to figure out the reason why.

 _"Five feet none he's an artful little dodger  
With a smile, a funny smile…" _

Soon the whole dugout was singing _"smile, smile, smile,"_ and stomping along. They were interrupted a few songs later by a particularly close bomb, which rattled the dugout enough to send bits of dirt falling from the ceiling. Frank squeezed his hand and Gerard realized he was digging his fingers into Frank's leg. He patted it in apology. Someone complained about the piss poor aim of the Allied strafing.

When everyone settled down they started singing "Raining and Grousing." As Gerard was singing, Frank turned his head and pressed his open mouth against Gerard's neck. Gerard's voice didn't falter, though, until Frank's tongue brushed against his skin. Gerard didn't exactly regain his composure, but he was able to keep singing unsteadily while Frank was still sucking on his neck, occasionally scraping his teeth against the stubble. Gerard scraped his foot against the ground so he didn't whimper. Singing was good; singing masked other sounds.

He was going to kill Frank when they got out of this. Or at least torture him like he was torturing Gerard. Gerard moved his hand down to Frank's knee and squeezed.

Frank jumped away and cursed. Gerard beamed, though Frank couldn't see it.

In another half an hour the all-clear was sounded. Gerard and Frank let everyone else file out first. There was a fresh crater taking up the whole road. A few men had already been sent down to check for unexploded munitions, although the thing looked pretty well exploded to Gerard. He then had to go check on Betsy, but she seemed to have escaped unharmed. When Gerard was examining her, he caught sight of himself in a rearview mirror. There was a red mark on his neck, no doubt right where Frank had been sucking on him during the bombing raid. No wonder Frank was strutting around with that smirk. Gerard made sure to compose his face before he went back around to face Frank.

Gerard and Frank went back down in the second line trenches, and Gerard kept his eyes peeled. Frank probably knew something was up— he'd gone quiet— but he didn't resist when Gerard spotted a dark, empty dugout, and pushed Frank into it.

"Did you think that was funny?" Gerard growled, shoving Frank into the wall, his fingers biting into Frank's hips. Frank giggled. "Are you trying to get us caught? You wanna be thrown in the glass house?" Frank stopped giggling at that and Gerard pressed forward and kissed him, hard. Frank groaned underneath him and tried to wiggle his hips against Gerard's, but Gerard pulled back. He bit Frank's lower lip and Frank gasped and tried to pull Gerard closer. Gerard took one hand off Frank's hip and slid it slowly across Frank's stomach and down until he could cup his hand around Frank's erection. Frank bucked and whined and Gerard leaned against him, trying to keep him still.

He lessened the pressure of his hand, until he was just brushing the front of Frank's trousers, and whispered "Shhh." Frank was cursing softly in French, words blending into each other. Gerard squeezed Frank through his trousers, Frank groaned loudly, and Gerard bent his mouth to Frank's neck, trying to recreate the mark Frank had left on his skin. He felt Frank's fingers tangling in his hair, Frank mumbling "Gerard, Gerard."

It was amazing, really, that that could be Gerard's name— it sounded completely different in Frank's mouth. Gerard grinned into Frank's neck and made up his mind. He sank down on his knees, hands back on Frank's hips for balance. Frank stared at him, eyes wide and dark. They hadn't done more than a lot of enthusiastic necking and some over-the-clothes groping. Gerard definitely had other intentions now, though.

He didn't waste any time unbuttoning Frank's trousers and pushing them down to his knees, then doing the same with the obnoxious amount of layers Frank had on underneath. Frank was definitely hard and already wrapping his fingers in Gerard's hair. It was almost too dark in the dugout to see anything, so Gerard really _had_ to drag his hands all over to get his bearings, it wasn't teasing Frank at all on purpose. Frank thrust his hips out a little and the tip of his dick nudged Gerard's cheek, and okay. Gerard wrapped a hand around the base of Frank's dick and wrapped his mouth around as much of Frank's dick as he could. He was definitely out of practice but Frank didn't seem to mind, if the noises he was making were anything to go by.

Gerard alternated sucking with using his hand, and Frank's knees gave out pretty quickly. Frank was using the hand not in Gerard's hair to cling to the wall, and Gerard was feeling pretty smug about the whole thing. He couldn't help reaching down to touch himself at the same time, at least to try and adjust his pants because Jesus fuck, he was hard. Frank was cursing and flailing and then tugged sharply on Gerard's hair. Gerard hummed thoughtfully around Frank's dick and that was enough to make Frank come. Gerard spit on the floor, hoping whoever normally used this place wouldn't notice, and Frank slid down the wall completely.

Frank flapped his hand at Gerard, started to say something, stopped, took a deep breath and tried again. "I tried to, to warn you."

Gerard squeezed Frank's thighs, where his hands had come to rest. "Didn't say you had to."

After a moment Frank said _"Gerard,"_ and reached forward and stuck his hands down Gerard's pants, first just trying to pull Gerard closer, then so he could wrap a hand around Gerard's dick. Frank growled and stopped long enough to loosen Gerard's pants so he could get more freedom of movement. Frank swirled his hand across the top of Gerard's dick and used the precum to slick his hand. Gerard buried his face in Frank's neck and tried not to be as loud as he wanted. When he came his shout was muffled by Frank's shoulder, and they both sat slumped together for a moment.

Once the first rush faded, Gerard realized how ridiculously uncomfortable this was, so he peeled himself off Frank and sat next to him. They did up their clothes as best they could in the dark. "Okay then," Gerard said, still feeling pleasantly weak and relaxed, and they both giggled a little.

Frank leaned his head against Gerard's shoulder, and Gerard leaned his head against Frank's. "I am keeping you," Frank said. Gerard tried to not grin too hard.

"Fine with me," he said, like it was all no big deal. Then, like a confession, he added, "I like the way you say my name," and wrapped his hand around Frank's.

~~~~

William was actually supposed to be with his men in the second lines, but, well, things happened. Things like heading to Casualty Clearing Station 33 with Gabe and Travis.

He was hunched over a mug of something that was supposed to be tea at the table across from Travis in the station's canteen. Gabe was lying in wait for Nurse Asher, and William and Travis expected this to keep them entertained for a month.

Gabe was hilariously jittery already, and William and Travis kept kicking each other under the table to make each other laugh. William was starting to get bored when Nurse Asher finally wandered in.

Gabe brushed back his hair, stood up, straightened out his uniform, and marched right up to her. William and Travis exchanged grins. William nudged his foot against Travis's, and Travie kicked him back.

Gabe was leaning in to talk to Nurse Asher, his face earnest. Nurse Asher, on the other hand, was frowning slightly. Gabe leaned back and threw up the Cobra sign. Nurse Asher shook her head, in a "I can't believe what I'm hearing" way, and said "What?" quite clearly.

Gabe said something, face shining with hope.

Nurse Asher slapped him on the face so hard Gabe's head jerked to his shoulder.

William and Travis howled with glee. They weren't the only ones. Most of the mess was hooting and catcalling.

Nurse Asher was telling off Gabe now, her face red and furious, but they couldn't hear what she was saying over the uproar.

Gabe, poor thing, looked shocked. He was staring at Nurse Asher, one hand on his face, mouth gaping.

William had to wrap his arms around his stomach because it was aching. "Where are you going?" he gasped to Travis, who was hauling himself to his feet.

Travis shook his head. "I'm gonna go rescue Gabe."

Gabe needed rescuing, too, because he said something else to Nurse Asher. This time she went pale and was apparently even struck dumb. William held his breath.

Nurse Asher slapped Gabe again, snapping his head the other way. Then she grabbed his head in both hands, pulled his head down, and… kissed him.

This time, the noise in the canteen was deafening.

Travis was jumping up and down and whooping, and all the other men around were clapping and stomping and hooting. William watched Gabe kiss Nurse Asher back and was vaguely surprised by how bitter the disappointment tasted.

~~~~

"What's going on, Gerard?" Schechter had come out of nowhere and cornered him and it was freaking Gerard out.

"Um. What?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Schechter said, fists on his hips and leaning into Gerard's space.

"Uh… no?"

Schechter's jaw clenched until he had to be grinding his teeth. "You're always taking the ambulance and disappearing for hours. What the fuck are you fucking doing, Way?" Schechter's face twitched and it was kind of fascinating.

The tick reminded Gerard of another time Schechter had been worked up to the point of twitching, and understanding burst into his brain like a shell. Schechter thought this had something to do with the July Incident two years ago.

"Oh," Gerard said. "Oh, no, Mr. Schechter. It's nothing like that."

"So you do have _some_ idea what I'm talking about?" Schechter could drip scorn like no one's business.

Gerard opened his eyes as wide as he could, hoping to look innocent. "I swear, boss, nothing like that. I'm not drinking and I'm not— actually, I'm doing pretty well. I'm just visiting my friend."

"Your friend."

"Yes."

"You swear?"

"I swear!"

"Okay, Way. I'm glad we had this chat, or whatever. And stop doing that with your eyes, it's fucking creepy."

 

Gerard slunk off to the canteen, or what passed for the canteen now, and sat down with Mikey, Ray, and Bob, ruffling Mikey's hair in greeting.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Dr. Bob said.

"Seriously, Gerard, where have you been?" Ray asked, stirring some white powder into his coffee. "You're never around anymore."

Mikey just shot Gerard a sideways look.

Gerard hunched up defensively. "I'm around! I'm totally around! I'm here now. So what's been going on, anyway?"

Mikey rolled his eyes.

Ray and Bob exchanged a surprisingly serious, anxious look. "We were supposed to get two hundred new recruits today," Bob murmured, almost at a whisper.

Gerard and Mikey leaned across the table. "And?"

"They're not coming," Bob said.

"So?" Mikey said. "They're going somewhere else?"

Ray looked up, eyes wide. "They've gone west. All of them."

Gerard let out a low whistle. "What got 'em?"

"You remember that disease that doesn't officially exist?"

"Are you serious?" Gerard asked, a bit too loud. "The plague?" he whispered.

Ray gave him a quick frown. "It's not bubonic plague, I told you. We're still not sure what it is."

"You were right," Bob said. "It's a fucking influenza."

"Maybe," Ray said modestly.

"It got them all at once?" Mikey made a face. "That's fucked up."

Bob rolled his eyes. "Professor Way, everyone."

"Hey," Gerard said, but Mikey just sniggered and kicked Bob under the table.

 

There wasn't time to worry about mysterious plagues; they were losing so many people anyway that it was hard to focus on any one thing killing them. They were moving again, and this time it was south. It seemed like the entire AEF was off for Verdun and the Meuse river valley and the Argonne forest. They were all such ominous-sounding names now. Gerard didn't want to go there and he didn't want Mikey to go there and he didn't want Frank to go there, but Frank showed up one day looking for a ride, because he didn't have to march with the AEF if he didn't want to.

When Gerard asked, Frank said, "It will be worth it if we get Verdun back." He was smoking and staring broodily in the general direction of Alsace-Lorraine, and just looking at him basically turned Gerard stupid.

Gerard sidled closer to Frank and reached out to nudge his foot against Frank's. Frank shot him a warm glance and a quick curl of smile.

Mikey sighed. "I am right here, you know."

Frank beamed at him and patted Mikey's shoulder.

Bob stomped up, carrying a box, and squinted at Frank. "Well, well, well. Look who's back from Ebla."

"Fuck you!" Frank cried. The only word for it was _delighted._ "Herr Doctor Boche!"

"Start that shit with me, frog, and I'll stomp you," Bob said. "Do you two useless lumps have room in your rust bucket for a few life-saving medical supplies?"

He sort of hefted the box toward Mikey, but Mikey, who had never heard of carrying boxes, didn't twitch a muscle. Gerard took it from Bob instead and managed to shove it under a bunk.

When he got back, he'd apparently missed a lot, because Frank and Bob were deeply involved in a conversation.

"So why go over the top at all?" Bob asked. "You know it's a death sentence. You don't even feel like it's worth it. So what if one day everyone said no? Everyone refused? What would they do? I mean, isn't that what you did, essentially, with the mutiny?"

"It was a strike, not a real mutiny. And then they make you choose," Frank said. He sounded tired. "Shot by firing squad or going over the top. And what are you going to choose then? In No Man's Land you have a chance. When it comes down to it, who do you trust more: the Boche or the staff officers?"

The evening hate started up then and it was too loud to talk. Frank's last question had been rhetorical, anyway.

 

Frank's nose was cold when he pushed it into Gerard's neck, but Gerard just tugged him closer and threw a leg over Frank's to try and keep him in place. It was impossible to fit two people in one of the ambulance bunks, so Frank had pulled a cot up next to Gerard's bunk, but it wasn't really working. They'd driven for miles, though, and all Gerard wanted to do was curl up with Frank and sleep.

"Don't forget I'm in here," Mikey warned from his bunk.

Gerard rolled his eyes, pitch black be damned. "Because you're being so quiet over there, we're likely to forget."

Frank snuffed a laugh.

"I'm just saying," Mikey mumbled.

 

It was very slow going, because they were quite in advance, and the roads often hadn't been cleared yet. There were craters of every size all over, and many corpses and other debris. The silver lining, though, was that Mikey needed new boots, and there were plenty to choose from.

Gerard would sit in the idling ambulance while Frank and Mikey went out and scouted around, and sometimes even moved things out of the way. Frank came back with an actual pickelhaube, an old German spiked helmet, that he wore whenever he could get away with it. "Someone was keeping it, I think, as a— how do you say _souvenir?_ "

"It's the same word."

"Ha. Well, as a souvenir, but he shan't need a memory now, he's got the _Croix de bois._ It's good for roasting sausages, I hear." He flicked a finger against the spike so the metal rang.

"I thought that's what the bayonet was for," Mikey said.

"They get too hot," Frank said. "And this one you don't have to hold, you see? Not that anyone's seen a sausage in years, so I suppose it doesn't matter."

Mikey finally found a pair of boots he liked. They went up to the knee, which seemed a bit silly, but Mikey carried them back to Betsy proudly, with Frank cackling next to him. "They're French cavalry boots from 1914," Frank explained. "The old uniforms, you know? What that fool was doing with them I don't know."

"I think they're spiffing," Mikey said, and started polishing them. Gerard rolled his eyes but he was relieved Mikey had new boots. His old right boot had a great tear along the bottom that let in water.

~~~~

They'd all moved to what used to be the Argonne forest, and they were in some old trenches that needed a lot of work. Brendon, Jon, and Zack were busy cleaning out their new dugout under Ryan's haphazard supervision when something blocked the light in the doorway.

"I'm kind of shocked you all didn't die without me." The voice was sardonic and amused and relieved and affectionate and totally—

"SPENCER!" Ryan shouted, and he was up and running and so was Jon, and no way could Brendon be left behind.

Ryan hugged Spencer and probably snotted on his shoulder, and then Jon hugged Spencer, but it wasn't the same sort of hug going on, even Brendon could see that. He could also see Spencer over Jon's shoulder, and Spencer was blushing.

Brendon danced impatiently. Jon was never going to let Spencer go. Jon was a Spencer hog. Brendon gave up (he never was very patient) and just wrapped his arms around both of them.

Brendon and Spencer exchanged a glance and then reached out together to pull Ryan into their group. Ryan only put up token resistance; a minute later Brendon felt Ryan's arm warm and solid across his back, Ryan's hand coming to rest on Jon's shoulder.

They stayed that way for a long time, resting together, breathing each other in and feeling each other. Spencer had been missing and things just hadn't been right without him.

They finally wiggled apart and then Spencer stared. "What the— you still have him?" he nodded his head at Zack, who waved.

"Um," Brendon said.

"No one told us to send him away," Ryan explained. "I mean, Pe— Captain Wentz should have ordered us to send him further back but he hasn't and… well…"

"We like him!" Brendon chirped.

"He's a good guy," Jon agreed.

Spencer, mouth open, stared at all of them in turn. Then he started to laugh. "I'm _really_ shocked you didn't die without me," he said. "Actually, I'm astounded."

"Shut up," Ryan said, and knocked his shoulder against Spencer's.

Not like Spencer had any room to make fun of them, because he'd come back with a beard, of all things, and it looked suspiciously like Jon's. Brendon gave Spencer many significant looks, but Spencer pretended to ignore them.

They had to tell him about Tom Conrad, of course, so there was some more hugging, and then they made Spencer show them his scar.

"It's pretty manly," Jon said, and Spencer turned pink.

They all sat down and Dylan came to say hello to Spence, and Ryan tried to explain why they hadn't come to see him in hospital, but Spencer waved away their apologies. "It's fine, I got moved around a lot."

After they caught Spencer up on everything he'd missed ("And it was as big as my arm, Spence, I swear, Jon wouldn't even let Dylan fight it and Dylan totally wanted to get that rat"), Jon announced he'd go bring back dinner for everyone.

"Oh," Spencer said, fumbling to his feet and not looking at anyone, "I'll come, too."

"Hey now," Brendon said, but no one would wink back. He kicked Ryan's ankle. "Happy now?"

Ryan grinned up at him, for real. "We're all back home now."

"Yeah," Brendon grinned back.

 

It took Jon and Spencer a suspiciously long time to come back with dinner. While they ate, Spencer told them about what he'd seen. The Tommies who got to go to London to recover, and the fields full of men who wouldn't be coming back.

"It was awful, all these rows of men, missing arms or legs or both or everything. Long rows of men blinded by gas, white bandages over their eyes. They all have to hold on to each other so they don't get lost. There was one man just begging everyone to kill him, begging anyone, he just kept saying 'I can't live like this, please.' Only I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, because he had his arms and legs. And then he said 'My girl won't want me now, she wants kids, please just bloody shoot me…' So I figured it out."

And some of them, Spencer said, were just insane.

 

When it was time to sleep, of course they were one mattress short, but Ryan and Brendon and Jon just pushed theirs together and slept close together, with Spencer tucked between Ryan and Jon. Brendon was pressed up right against Ryan, and he couldn't relax enough to sleep. He was hyper-conscious of everywhere his body touched Ryan's, even though it was ridiculous, because it's not like they all hadn't slept piled together before, but now for some reason Brendon was worried about being too clingy. What if he kicked in his sleep? What if, oh horrors, he drooled on Ryan? What if he did something horribly offensive and Ryan hated him forever?

In the morning pre-dawn, Brendon found Spencer by the lamp, reading a letter, frowning faintly. Brendon was tempted to stay curled up with Ryan, where he was warm (and also _with Ryan_ ), but in the end curiosity wouldn't let him rest. He pulled away without disturbing Ryan and wiggled out of his blanket. Spencer had noticed he was awake, of course, and smiled at Brendon as he scooted over to join him.

Brendon sat next to Spencer and put his head on Spencer's shoulder. "So," he whispered. "You and Jon, huh?"

Spencer punched him in the stomach but smiled a private smile and let his gaze rest on Jon, who had rolled in his sleep into the space Spencer had vacated, maybe seeking Ryan's body heat.

Brendon kept his arms wrapped around his stomach and settled back on Spencer's shoulder. He looked at the letter Spencer had been reading.

"That's Ryan's letter! The one from his parents?" Brendon tried to grab it but Spencer held it out of reach.

"It's not for you to read, Urie," Spencer sniffed. He folded up the letter and tucked it away. Brendon pouted, but Spencer didn't even seem to notice, so he gave it up.

"I didn't even know Ryan's parents were still alive," Brendon admitted.

"We don't like to talk about them," Spencer said. "And if I ever see his father again I'm going to punch him in the face, I don't care."

"I bet you'll break his nose." Brendon's stomach was still kind of sore.

Spencer laid his arm across Brendon's shoulders and Brendon bounced his feet a little in happiness. "I can't believe you have a pet Alleyman," Spencer murmured. "I thought Jon's cat was bad."

"He's even better than Dylan," Brendon said. "I mean, Dylan's good with rats, but when we moved into German trenches Zack got us the best dugout. Plus everyone's afraid of him, it's neat."

Spencer snorted, then surprised Brendon by giving him a swift, strong hug. "I really did miss you guys."

~~~~

"And… go."

Pete snapped his watch shut and tucked it back in his pocket. Everyone else crowded into the tiny dugout put their wristwatches back on. Pete consulted the list Patrick had written up for him.

"I think that's it. You're dismissed. Get some sleep. Sergeant Ross?"

When Ross reached Pete's side, Pete noticed that he looked pale but his shoulders were straighter than they had been for quite some time. "You've got your injured man back?"

Ross didn't exactly smile, but he didn't look like a smile was out of the realm of possibility, either. "Yes, sir. As good as new." His expression darkened a bit. "Just in time."

"Yeah, well," Pete sighed. That was the way things out here went, more often than not. "Good luck tomorrow Sergeant. Dismissed."

Pete tried not to think about calling him back, calling them all back, erasing everything. _No more going over the top,_ he wanted to say. _Not tomorrow, not ever._ Whatever they were fighting for, it couldn't be worth this price.

"Sir," Patrick said. He waited a long moment before continuing. "You're not the one sending them out there."

Pete laughed once, harshly. "How can you say that? Didn't I just issue the orders?"

"You were just passing them on," Patrick was standing right behind Pete now. He could be sneaky when he wanted to be. "It's not your decision. You don't have any more of a choice than any other soldier."

He was right, but it just made Pete want to hit something. "How can we be fighting for freedom— making the world safe for democracy— when we don't have any freedom ourselves? We're all condemned to death but we didn't do anything wrong. All those boys who are going to die tomorrow— some of my boys, probably, and other Americans and French and even the Germans who are going to die tomorrow didn't do anything wrong. And the ones who did— the ones who made the war and are keeping us fighting long past the point of any kind of sanity, the ones condemning innocents to death— they're all just sitting in their comfortable rooms where it's warm and dry and they have enough food and they don't have to step over corpses on their way to the toilet— they're all going to make it through."

He became aware of Patrick's hand on his back. "What do you want to do about it? We're only two people."

Pete turned his head, trying to see Patrick's face. "We? If I had a hare-brained scheme you'd help me?"

"Of course! Who wouldn't?"

Pete huffed a laugh— one that was a little more real— and turned around to face Patrick, and wrapped his arms around him. Patrick huffed and flailed a little, but didn't really try to escape.

"A lot of people wouldn't," Pete mumbled into Patrick's shoulder. "But it's enough that you would."

~~~~

(September 26, 1918)

No morning hate today, it was pure Jericho— the wrath of God directed at the German lines around Verdun. Brendon stood on the step next to Ryan, peering over the sandbag parapet. At 5:25 AM the bombardment would stop and they would all go over the top. His rifle was in his hands, bayonet affixed. It had been over a month and a half since they'd been trapped in a shell hole together and Spencer was back but Brendon felt queasy. He kept thinking about not going over when the whistles blew.

Zack, of course, was not there; he was back in the support trench, waiting for them to come home, or not. Brendon missed him.

"Brendon," Ryan whispered, startling Brendon. He leaned close to Ryan, to hear over the shells and mortars and Howitzers. "I don't think I can move," Ryan whispered.

Brendon looked at him incredulously. "What?"

Ryan's teeth were chattering. Brendon couldn't hear them over the Maxims' chatter but he could see Ryan shaking and he could hear the waver in his voice. Which was odd, Brendon thought inanely, because if you didn't know Ryan you probably wouldn't be able to tell. But Brendon could.

"I don't think I'll be able to move," Ryan groaned. "I've been trying to move for the past couple minutes and I can't. Brendon. I don't know what's going to happen. I just… I can't move! Don't tell Spencer!" Ryan added, but it was too late. Brendon had already reached around to tap Spencer's shoulder.

Ryan groaned as Brendon and Spencer leaned towards each other behind Ryan's back. "He says he can't move!" Brendon said.

"Can't move?" Spencer looked doubtful. He straightened up and Brendon did the same. "We don't have time for this," Spencer said, looking at his watch. He grabbed Ryan by the scruff of the neck and shook him. "Can you move now?" he shouted at Ryan.

Behind them, Lt. Hurley blew his whistle.

Before Brendon had really registered the whistle and what it meant, he was climbing the ladder. Ryan was up there too, crouched low in the barbed wire snarl. He used his rifle to gesture to the break in the barbed wire, and Brendon saw Spencer crawling through. He followed. The path through the wire was very specific, and a team had already been up to make sure it was clear. Getting caught on the wires was guaranteed death.

Brendon hated how light it was, how exposed they felt, crawling around No Man's Land in the daylight. He could hear how busy the German artillerymen were, and Brendon kept low to the ground, the noxious mud seeming a lot more friendly suddenly.

Brendon didn't look up as he ran, so he ended up crashing into Spencer. Spencer looked at him, made a face, and nodded at the way in front of them, which was blocked. If it had been a fresh corpse it would have been fine to crawl over it, but this one had been out for a while and it was discolored and hugely bloated with gas, and if they tried climbing over it, it might explode, and that was a mess they didn't need.

Spencer leaned over Brendon to shout at Ryan. "I thought they cleared this! This has been here for weeks!"

"Can you roll it?" Ryan shouted, right in Brendon's ear but talking to Spencer. Spencer made another face, and Brendon made one back.

"Fuck," Spencer said. He and Brendon passed over their rifles to Jon, because the last thing they needed were bayonets, and Brendon squeezed in next to Spencer. There was no place Brendon particularly wanted to put his hands so he put his shoulder on it and used his elbow to dig underneath, trying not to inhale. Spencer was doing the same next to him, and they managed to shift the body until it rolled onto its side.

Where the body had been sitting in water it had turned grayish-white and slippery, and the smell from this was so foul Brendon and Spencer were physically knocked back, as if an invisible hand had pushed them over.

"Don't let it land on the stomach!" Ryan cried, as if everyone didn't know that. His hand was in front of his nose.

Brendon gagged and scrambled up, facing away from the corpse.

Spencer looked cranky. "This is bullshit!" he complained, then they all had to slam down onto their stomachs as machine gun fire swept towards them.

 _Don't hit the body,_ Brendon begged someone or something, although he was praying more to the German gunner than God. _Please, please, don't hit the—_

The bloated corpse exploded, an eruption of gas and decaying matter that flew everywhere. Brendon thought, rather distantly, _fuck it_ and threw up. He hadn't had much breakfast, but it felt like his body tried to make up for it by trying really hard to throw up all his internal organs. Kind of like the corpse just had, ha.

"This is fucking brilliant," Ryan said.

The machine gun had left them and they sat up slowly, just a bit, still nested in all the barbed wire.

"Is everyone alive?" It was only barely a question.

"Four still alive, one still dead," Jon said, because he was so funny.

Ryan pulled something slimy off his arm and glared at Jon.

"I'm going to find whatever crew was supposed to be responsible for clearing our route," Ryan said, "and I'm going to kill them."

"Let's get out of here," Spencer said. "We shouldn't be breathing this shit."

They had no trouble getting over the corpse now— no surprise, since it felt like they were wearing half of it. Brendon could still taste decay in his mouth. He would have preferred stomach acid.

They reached the end of their barbed wire with no further incident. They ran for a large crater left by a mortar, from the looks of it, and settled comfortably on the far side of it, on their stomachs in the mud.

Spencer was fussing with his beard and looking unhappy. "I think I'm shaving if I get back," he said. "I think there are bits in here I'll never get out."

"The war can't handle your beard," Jon said. He rubbed at his own, which was considerably shorter.

"His beard can't handle the war," Ryan said, in the tone that meant he thought he was being witty.

"See if I pull you off the wire, asshole," Spencer said.

They listened to the sounds of the war going on around them. Brendon only realized he was humming when Ryan's rifle butt found his ribs.

"All right," Ryan said. "Let's keep heading for Germany. 'We go now into heaven, or hand-in-hand to hell.' "

They kept heading East, from crater to shell hole. They got split up into pairs when they reached a stretch with only smaller shell holes. Jon took a quick peak over the rim. "I think we're close enough for Mills bombs," he said.

"About time," Brendon said.

He and Jon pulled a couple of grenades each out their packs. Pin, back, forward, release. All one motion. They ducked down and listened to the explosion, which was accompanied by a satisfying shriek. They waited a few minutes in the hope that more enemy would accumulate, and then threw the next ones over.

It was quiet right in front of them, so Brendon peered over the rim. The German wire was close, and the remains of their attack were smoking. It looked like they'd hit the actual front line trench. Brendon slid back down. "Want to get a medal?" he asked.

Jon pretended to think about it, then shrugged. "I don't really have anything else going on today. Why not?"

~~~~

"So I'm never gonna walk again, right?" The private, who was probably in his late 20's, was staring straight up in the sky.

"I'm afraid not," Gerard said. A bullet had nicked this guy in the back; shot clean through his vertebral column. There were bone chips in the wound; Gerard could not imagine anything below the shattered vertebrae would ever work again, assuming he outlived the day.

"If you can take my body back, I'd appreciate it, but if not, I understand."

"You want us to take you back now?" Mikey asked.

"I want you to shoot me now. Take me back when you get a chance, if you get one. Don't risk anyone else's neck."

"That's very brave," Gerard said.

The private huffed something like a laugh. "Not really. A brave man would accept his fate and live with it. I ain't got that in me."

"No one can blame you," Gerard said. He had a pistol; everyone had a weapon of some sort. He pulled it out. "What's your name?"

"I think it's better for you if you don't know," the man said. "Better you don't think on it. Though maybe you wouldn't anyways, all you musta seen."

Mikey held the guy's hand. Gerard waited while the guy prayed silently, then put the gun to his head.

"Wasn't all bad, anyway," the private said. Gerard shut his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The man jumped, a little, and so did Gerard with the kickback. Gerard put the safety back on and holstered the pistol. He and Mikey took the dogtags and pocketbook. The only other thing in the private's pockets was a pipe, not army-issue, hand-carved. Gerard pocketed it to mail back to the family.

Technically, Ambulance Drivers weren't supposed to go into No Man's Land, or at least didn't have to, but there wasn't a police man stopping anyone or a conductor checking for over the top tickets. The Red Cross had a reputation to uphold, too, so.

"What do you think?" he asked Mikey. They'd run into a whole lot of dead bodies and not many people they could realistically save. Triage wasn't supposed to be performed until the men were at the CCS, but after three years you learned how to leave behind the men who wouldn't even make it that far.

There was smoke everywhere and mud and other things flying in the air, and there wasn't much visibility, so it was hard to tell which way to go.

Gerard was _mostly_ sure he knew which way the Allied lines were.

Mikey looked around and shrugged. "Just, I guess, forward?"

Why not? Gerard picked up the stretcher and they started slinking around. The mud was very churned up here and covered with bits of the usual war debris— wire, shell casing, scraps of metal, bones, bits of kit— so he was concentrating on the ground and it was a considerable shock to run into someone.

His feet fumbled in the mud and Gerard slipped to land on his ass, tangled with the stretcher. He looked up, still more surprised than anything else. _"Maja?"_

"Gerard? And Mikey Way!"

Gerard and Mikey had not seen Maja and Fritz, who worked for the German Red Cross, for nearly a year.

"In Verdun, of all places!" Gerard said, as Fritz helped him to his feet. "I thought you were still in Belgium!"

Fritz shrugged. "Everyone is getting moved all around."

Of course there was nothing for it but to repair to a nearby crater for a chat and smoke. They exchanged gossip and cigarettes (American for Turkish), and Gerard and Mikey gave Maja all their chocolate. She almost cried.

"It's been so long since I had any at all! Oh thank you so much, I will never forget this, ever, I promise!"

"It's no problem," Gerard said with a laugh. "We're just glad you guys are still alive!"

"It's always so nice to see familiar faces," Maja agreed with a smile.

They stayed as long as they could, reluctant to leave their little sanctuary, knowing what was waiting for them over the rim of their crater.

~~~~

When Brendon and Jon jumped into the German trench, they landed on a couple of dead bodies, which made them stumble and fall into the walls. Brendon and Jon had just killed these two with their Mills bombs, though, so that was the worst of it.

Nothing else came at them, and except for a rat, there was nothing else to be seen in this section of trench. Of course, trenches were built to minimize damages from explosions and trap raiding parties, so it's not like they could see more than a few feet in either direction.

"Which way do you wanna go?" Jon asked.

"Let's go left," Brendon said.

They edged around corners, working their way as quickly as they dared through the Greek key pattern. These trenches were like the German trenches they'd been in before. Solidly built and punctuated by concrete bunkers a grenade would bounce off of.

They were lucky enough to be standing still and heard a shuffle around the corner. Jon carefully clicked the safety off his rifle and Brendon did the same. After a tense moment that felt like ages but was probably a couple seconds, they swung round the corner.

"Shit!" Jon pointed his rifle in the air, and Brendon froze.

Ryan and Spencer were pointing their rifles at them. After a moment, they all lowered them and laughed.

"Good to see you guys," Ryan said.

~~~~

They'd spent a little time on the way back looking for the private again but he'd already been lost to the mud, and when they'd found someone shot through the hip trying to drag himself back, that put an end to the search. Gerard was smoking and thinking about his counterparts on the other side when he was badly startled by a walking mudpile, smelling strongly of gunpowder, who slithered into his lap, a leg on either side, plucked the fag out of his hand, and stole a kiss.

"Is that a _Turkish_ cigarette?" Frank's eyes looked ridiculously white and huge. "How did you get it?" He looked at Gerard like Gerard was magic.

Gerard rather enjoyed that, so he smiled mysteriously and said "I have my ways."

Frank took a drag, eyelids fluttering in ecstasy. "Turkish are my _favorite._ So are you."

"And there's more where that came from," Gerard said, pleased with his luck. He thought about trying to slide his hand under Frank's shirt, but Frank appeared to be well and truly plastered in mud. He settled for patting Frank's hip. "I see you've been underground all day."

"Mmrph," Frank said, around an inhale. He tilted his head up to blow smoke rings. There was a clean line of skin right at the top of his neck and under his jaw, where the strap of his helmet had protected it. Gerard wondered if he could lick it without getting a mouthful of mud and whatever else was on Frank's skin. Probably not, he concluded with regret.

"You're getting an incriminating pattern of mud all over me," Gerard noted.

Frank spoke around the fag, which he had yet to take out of his mouth. "That's incriminating? I'll show you incriminating." He faked towards Gerard's pants, then actually went for his sides, tickling.

Gerard squawked and tried to fight him off, and they ended up wrestling on the ground. After Frank nearly swallowed the fag they left off. The incriminating pattern was gone, smeared all over, and it wasn't like Gerard had been clean to start with. Gerard gave Frank the rest of his Turkish cigarettes, because he was essentially a sap and a pushover.

~~~~

Ryan's unit made it back by nightfall. They went straight to the support trench, although technically they weren't supposed to, and washed off as best they could in cold, muddy water. Spencer, as promised, shaved his beard. Zack seemed very glad to see them. He kept smiling and patting their heads.

They ate a truly enormous amount of food and went to bed as soon as they could. Brendon felt like he'd hardly closed his eyes before it was reveille again.

"I don't want to," he groaned into his blanket. But of course he did get up, and put on all his kit, and stood at attention and ate breakfast. Then they had to go talk to Captain Wentz, to tell him about taking the trench.

"There wasn't anyone there," Ryan reported. "I think they'd left it."

"But two of you killed enemy?" Lt. Stump asked, consulting the written report Ryan had given.

"Privates Urie and Walker, yes. But two Alleymen for a trench seems to be a bit understaffed."

Captain Wentz looked at them with deceptively lazy eyes. "You think they were there to make noise and make it seem like there were more of them than there were?"

Ryan shifted a little nervously. "It seems possible, doesn't it?"

"Quite," Wentz sat up straight. "You'll all be mentioned in dispatches. Good job, boys."

"Mentioned in dispatches," Brendon scoffed, when they'd left Wentz and Stump's dugout. "Is that all?"

Jon nudged him. "Get mentioned enough and you get a medal."

Brendon stretched. He felt stiff all over after yesterday. "I still don't think it was worth it."

 

They were all sick for a week, thanks to the exploded corpse, and by the time they were fit again the charge was over. Ten miles in five days, a Western Front record.

~~~~

(October 2, 1918)

There was not much left of the Argonne forest. What remained of the trees were spiky, short trunks, more hindrance than help in the fighting. It seemed, though, like the Germans were sometimes there and sometimes not.

Right now, it was lunchtime, and they were not. Impromptu truces were one of the few things that could be looked forward to on the Western Front. It was lunch right now, and if a Jerry had walked up, no one would have shot him.

When the forest had still been alive the trees would have probably been too closely packed for the picnic Pete's troop were now enjoying. It was almost sunny, when the smoke cleared off, and it was nice to have everyone in one place for once.

Pete insisted on laying out a blanket and shared his with Patrick and Joe and Andy. The food wasn't any different than what they always ate, but it was the height of novelty to eat in the open air, above ground.

Pete felt he could be forgiven his exuberance when he saw a familiar rickety ambulance clanking down the remains of the road. He jumped up and waved and shouted, and it rattled to a halt.

Pete was slightly disappointed that only Gerard and Mikey got out. All he'd been able to get out of Mikey was that Gerard had some excellent French reason to never be around in the evenings, and Pete was curious. Mikey's policy on gossiping about Gerard, though, was basically _don't_ ; and while Pete understood, it was still a little frustrating.

He made Mikey and Gerard join the picnic. "I can't believe your ambulance still moves on its own!" Pete said.

Gerard got huffy. "She does her best! It's not her fault she breaks down— I think half her engine's been rebuilt by things that were never meant for an automobile."

"Whoa, man, I didn't mean to insult your lady," Pete held up his hands and tried not to grin. "What are you bodysnatchers doing over here in our neck of the ex-forest anyway?"

"We got moved," Mikey said. "The whole CCS, basically, is chasing your regiment around France."

Gerard didn't look happy about this. Pete was glad that Patrick was required to be wherever Pete was. They ate and talked shit and lunch ended much sooner than Pete would have liked. Patrick nudged him significantly three times before Pete looked around and realized that yes, everyone else was finished and halfway to a nap.

With a sigh, he stood up and ordered everyone to get ready to march.

"You're not going to let them have a kip?" Mikey teased. "You're such a hardass, Pete."

"I'm not entirely sure what kip means," Pete said with dignity, "but I know you're an asshole, Mikey Way."

"Leave my brother alone, Pete Wentz," Gerard said. "Even if he is an asshole."

Pete left Patrick to clean up the remains of their picnic and walked the Ways back to their ambulance.

"I wish I could let them sleep," Pete said. "I hate sending them off to die everyday. You think I'd get used to it, but I don't."

"I don't know if it helps," Gerard said, "but most of them make it through each day, right? I mean, most of them come back from No Man's Land."

"But _all_ of them don't come back. _Someone_ always dies."

Gerard stopped to light a cigarette. "Someone _always_ dies."

"But when they die here it doesn't matter."

"You can't say that—"

"But it's true! If they died at home, of, of, some disease or an accident then everyone mourns and there's a funeral and a notice in the papers talking about their life and there's acknowledgment. If they die here, no even looks for the body. Most of the time there isn't one, boys just disappear in a burst of shell, here one minute and gone the next with no fragments worth collecting. If you're exceptionally lucky you get buried with a grave marker and there's a five minute service. But mostly, it's just their name in the paper in the middle of a long column of other names, and no one really misses them because no one's got the energy to do anything other than survive. We have to forget someone we've lost as quickly as we can because we're going to lose someone else today or tomorrow or next week, and if you spend too much time missing someone you're dead yourself."

"Well, people do what they have to do, right? There will be time to mourn everyone after, when we know who exactly we have to mourn. Although I think we're going to have to mourn for all of us. Even those of us coming out of this alive have lost something, maybe something important." Gerard shrugged, his face downcast. "There are worse things than death. I've seen them."

Pete didn't know what to say to that. Gerard was right, and he probably had a better idea of it than Pete. Gerard and Mikey had been all over the Front, and here for years longer than Pete. They'd been at the Somme, they'd been at Passchendaele. Mikey hadn't talked about them to Pete, because, Pete thought, it was too awful to talk about aloud.

Pete, for all the crushing responsibility of command, didn't have to come face to face very often with mangled bodies and ruined lives, when lives remained at all.

Somewhere, guns were booming. Their smoke was starting to drift over here. _"There's bound to be some silver lining somewhere,"_ Pete quoted, quirking a smile.

Mikey smiled back, a little. Gerard was cranking the ambulance. "I don't know that any good can come out of this," Mikey said, gesturing vaguely around them. "It's sort of poisoned the whole world, hasn't it?" They looked at the stubs of trees and the smoke clouds and the toxic mud.

Pete didn't watch them drive away, but he listened even as he shouted out his "Form fours! Right turn! March!"

Pete marched next to Patrick. "Do you think any good can come out of this?"

"Personal good, yes," Patrick said. "There's courage and nobility here, in spite of the war, not because of it. I think—" he shot a hasty, sideways glance at Pete— "I think it may do us individual good, yes. And they say it'll end all wars. If it does— if there's no more war after this, wouldn't that be reason enough?"

"It depends on when it ends," Pete said, flatly. "If it ends. If anyone's left alive at the end."

~~~~

News began filtering down that Bulgaria had agreed to an armistice. Bulgaria was small and it was a different front, but it was the first fighting power to sign one, and it was like Bulgaria was the first country in the world to think of an armistice. And in the Balkans— where the whole mess had started— maybe it was the beginning of the end.

It was a bit easier to get up in the morning, a bit easier to march all day. Food tasted better. Singing was a bit louder. Every little bit helped.

"I'm starting to think Germany's on the run," Travis said.

"I wish you hadn't said anything," William whined. "Now it's jinxed."

Travis wrapped an arm around William's neck and tried to noogie him, but William just sort of wilted. "What's wrong, Billy Beckett?"

The truth was, William hadn't slept well since Tom Conrad had died. William knew it wasn't his fault, and he had written the Conrads a very nice letter, but Tom had still been his man and his friend and the guilt wouldn't let him alone.

William changed the subject instead. "We lost Gabe," he pointed out. "We promised Nate we wouldn't."

"Shit." Travis looked around. "If he's with Nurse Asher I hate to interrupt, but—"

"But if he's off trying to convert the Alleyman, we'll be killed. By Nate."

They decided to check with the nurses first, because that was hopefully the more likely place. To their distress, they saw Nurse Asher right away, and she was alone.

"Have you seen Chaplain Saporta?" William demanded.

Nurse Asher gave him a smug smile. "He was here."

"And now?"

Nurse Asher actually looked a little worried. "I think he went to find you, actually. And I take it he didn't."

"We'll find him, Miss, don't worry," Travis said, and pulled William away. The Clearing Station, now that it was moving so much, looked completely different every time they were there.

The one thing they had on their side was that _everyone_ knew Chaplain Saporta, so at least they could stop people and ask if they'd seen him, piecing together clues, running back and forth in opposite directions.

"Gabe sure gets around, doesn't he?" Travis sighed.

They finally saw him standing behind a supply wagon, talking to, of all people, Captain Prior. William was considerably disconcerted, and he lagged a bit behind Travis as they walked up.

Gabe was speaking enthusiastically, arms windmilling. Prior was leaning back, looking faintly alarmed.

"Gabe," Travis called. "We've been looking all over for you."

Gabe turned and waved brightly.

Prior saw them and arched an eyebrow at William. William arched an eyebrow right back.

"Sergeant Beckett."

"Captain Prior."

"Friend of yours?" he nodded at Gabe.

"Yes." William tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. Prior looked good. William was aware the sleepless nights had given him bags under his eyes.

Prior looked at Travis, and William quickly introduced them, thinking well of Prior for waiting.

"Well, I have to be off, unfortunately," Prior said, and sent William a look that made it clear what kind of misfortune he thought it was. He turned back to Gabe first, though, and fumbled in a pocket. "Look, there's this doctor I know in London-- he'll take you if I send you-- here's the card. You really ought to think about seeing him. Just tell him Billy Prior sent you."

"Thank you," Gabe said, and although he looked puzzled, he accepted the card and put it in a pocket.

Prior touched his cap so they all saluted, and then he was gone. "He was all right," Gabe said. "A bit odd, though. I mean, why would I need to go to a doctor?"

"No reason at all," William said, very carefully not looking at Travis, and thought it was a bit cheeky for Prior to be recommending shrinks.

~~~~

The Allied armies pushed back across France. The German army, for the most part, pushed back, but in some cases resistance simply melted away. Whole regiments surrendered together.

The advance was moving so fast now there wasn't time to construct trenches. The US Army had brought out their tents to set up for the night now, and it was more than a little surreal to see a field of tents all perched above ground like mushrooms pushing out of the mud.

Gerard scanned the camp— it was the equivalent of the reserve trenches, and had parked near something that actually resembled a forest. This part of France had been held by Germany for so long that the trees had been safe.

Betsy was pretty recognizable, and it was not long before Frank appeared. They had not seen each other for about a week. Gerard missed Frank a rather embarrassing amount.

"So," Frank said, fiddling with his tunic buttons and not looking Gerard in the eye. "I have my own tent. Want to see it?"

"Sure," Gerard said. He hoped he wasn't blushing, even though he thought Frank was.

They didn't speak as they picked their way through the camp. Frank's tent was off to the edge, close to the forest.

"Aren't you afraid something might come out of the forest and eat you?" Gerard asked.

Frank snorted. "Like what? A deserter?"

Gerard shrugged. But Frank definitely threw a suspicious look at the forest before opening the tent, so Gerard felt a little smug. Then they had to awkwardly take their boots off, which was always a pain, and Gerard ended up sort of falling into the tent, but at least he didn't hurt anything.

Frank looked thoughtfully at their boots outside the tent before bringing them in and carefully setting them sole up before closing up the flap. _Oh,_ Gerard thought. _Right._

Making out in the tent was awesome. They could lie down and stretch out and they didn't have to jump apart and look innocent every time they heard a noise, although that took a little getting used to. But their kisses could move from slow to intense quite naturally, and eventually Gerard, at least, was able to relax and forget everything else. No one knew they were in here, they weren't going to get caught. They lay on their sides, legs intertwined, and Gerard got to touch Frank as much as he wanted.

Gerard had no idea how long it had been, just that he was short of breath and really hard and wanted to grind against Frank forever when Frank pulled away. Gerard groaned in frustration but Frank sat up and ran a hand through his hair. There was just enough light to see the nervous expression on Frank's face when he reached behind him and dug through a pile of cloth on the floor.

"Um," Frank said. "I got this." It came out like a question, and he set a little glass jar down where Gerard could see it.

"Oh," Gerard said, and he suddenly couldn't tear his eyes away from the jar of vaseline.

"If that's okay?" Frank asked, voice trembling with nerves.

"I— yeah." Gerard was finding it rather difficult to get a good breath. "Yes, that's— that's good."

Frank smiled in relief, but he was still too nervous— or maybe excited— for it to be a normal smile.

Gerard pushed himself up and leaned over to kiss Frank. Frank met him eagerly and started nibbling on Gerard's lower lip while Gerard slid an arm around Frank's waist and used it to pull him closer and then pull them both down.

They were back where they'd started and it was almost like the interlude with the glass jar hadn't happened, except that the intent had most definitely changed; they had a goal now. Gerard rolled onto his back and Frank followed automatically, so Gerard spread his legs and encouraged Frank to wiggle in against him, and that was really fucking sweet. They were back to grinding together and the friction was good but definitely not as good as it could be, so Gerard cupped his hands around Frank's face and pushed his head up.

He almost forgot what he was going to say, though, because Frank looked fucking gorgeous, with his fucked up hair and his face flushed and his eyes wild, and his mouth swollen and shiny and—

"Frankie," Gerard managed to get out, "You should fuck me now, okay?"

Frank swallowed and nodded. "Okay, yes, yeah, we shou— can do that."

He rolled off Gerard and started getting out of his clothes, and Gerard had forgotten how fucking annoying it was trying to get undressed in a tent you couldn't stand up in. He didn't look over at Frank in the hope that Frank wouldn't look over at him and see Gerard flopping around like a fish trying to get his pants off. And had he thought getting his pants off in a tent was hard before? Trying to get his pants off in a tent while being painfully hard was much worse.

Gerard tossed his clothes to the side with a cry of triumph and heard Frank giggling. Whatever, like Frank had been so much more graceful. He turned around to say as much to Frank but got completely distracted by—

"Hey! You have tattoos!" Frank had a lot of a tattoos. Gerard pushed Frank down to get a better look, and then he tasted one of the birds, but it didn't taste or feel any different from the rest of Frank's skin. Gerard thought he might have to taste each one to be sure, though.

Frank was whining and twitching underneath him, so Gerard thoughtfully wrapped a hand around Frank's dick and slowly jacked him a couple times. Frank cursed in French and what might have been Italian, which was interesting, and Gerard was quite keen on making him do it again, but Frank knocked Gerard's hand away and sat up enough to grab the little glass jar.

Oh, that's right. Gerard had almost forgotten. Frank hesitated, so Gerard hurried to lay down on his back. He hoped it looked like he knew what he was doing. Gerard had only done this once before, and he was pretty sure he'd been drunk at the time.

"What's this one?" Frank asked, and drew a finger along Gerard's shin. Gerard couldn't see what Frank was looking at, but he didn't have to. Unlike a tattoo, it definitely felt different.

"It's not really anything," Gerard waved his hand to reinforce this idea. "Rookie meets barbed wire. You know. It looks worse than it was." The scar had healed badly because Gerard had refused to see a doctor about it; he'd been afraid they'd give him stitches. When it got worse instead of better, though, Mikey had eventually brought Ray over, and Ray had yelled at Gerard and patched him up without any stitches, and that was how they'd made friends with Ray.

Ray and Mikey weren't really what Gerard wanted to be thinking about right now.

He reached out to grab Frank's hand and squeezed it, then tugged until Frank had moved close enough to kiss. All that skin together sent little pleasant zings everywhere. Naked really was a whole new level of good. They didn't kiss long, though; Frank was now a man on a mission. He pulled back and Gerard stared at the peak in the tent's roof and listened to scrape of the jar's lid as it turned. It sounded unnaturally loud, somehow much louder than their breathing.

Gerard felt Frank's hands on his legs, soft and warm, and then Frank licked his knee, and then all down the inside of Gerard's thigh, teeth biting just a little bit. Gerard threw an arm over his face and bit his own arm to muffle the sounds he wanted to make.

Frank's fingers, slicked cold, touched him and Gerard jerked a little. It felt a little weird at first, just because it was so _different,_ but mostly it felt amazing and Gerard couldn't help thrusting his hips a little.

Frank pushed his fingers inside Gerard, and that was definitely weird but also so good the weirdness didn't matter. It was like everything in the world was concentrated in just one spot, and Gerard wanted _more_ and Frank obliged him, and when Frank whispered "Ready?" first in French, then in English, Gerard nodded and answered with "More than."

Gerard whimpered when Frank pulled his fingers out and it seemed to take forever before Frank was moving over him, knocking Gerard's arm away and pressing sloppy kisses all over Gerard's face. Frank sucked on the corner of Gerard's jaw for a moment then sat up a little, his hands squeezing Gerard's hips before starting to push inside.

Gerard closed his eyes and only realized he was frowning when Frank brushed his fingers over Gerard's forehead, smoothing the wrinkles out. Gerard took a deep breath, remembered to relax, and Frank pushed in further. It was okay, or it would be in a minute; it certainly didn't hurt as much as Gerard remembered.

"Okay?" Frank whispered.

Gerard nodded. "Yeah, keep going."

Frank nodded and kept going, his face screwed up in concentration, breathing ragged, until he was all the way in. Gerard felt split the fuck open but not in a bad way, really, but in a way that made him glad this was Frank and not anyone else.

Frank's arms were trembling with the strain, so Gerard brushed his fingers over them, up to Frank's face, and said, "Go."

"Go?"

 _"Allons."_

Frank, eyes deceptively lazy, pulled almost all the way out and then snapped his hips forward. Gerard shouted and arched up because holy fucking shit, he hadn't realized you could do that. That Frank could do that.

Frank was just going for it now, fucking him, and Gerard was pretty sure that if Frank stopped he would die. He tried to raise himself up enough to kiss Frank, which made a new and interesting angle, and Frank bit Gerard's lip and pulled and all Gerard could do was whimper.

Frank gasped kind of like a sob and Gerard realized he wasn't going to last much longer, which was sad but they could do this again, because no fucking way was Frank getting rid of Gerard now. Gerard fumbled his hands down Frank's sides until he could grab Frank's hips and pull him in closer. Frank was mumbling, mostly in French, just parts of words, and his nails were digging into Gerard's skin and then Frank shouted and he was coming, body rigid for a few thrusts before melting against Gerard.

Gerard held Frank close for a moment as Frank tried to pull himself together or whatever. He pulled out of Gerard and it made Gerard whimper, because he didn't really want to let go of Frank.

"I'll just," Frank panted. "Hold on, I'll—" Talking must have been too much, because Frank seemed to give up and pulled away enough to wrap a hand around Gerard's dick, which was leaking he was so fucking hard, even though he'd actually kind of forgot about his own dick when Frank was fucking him. He thrust into Frank's hand now, though, and Frank abruptly slid down Gerard's body and slipped his mouth over the top of Gerard's dick, sucking just on the tip and then adding a curl of tongue. For a moment Gerard thought he was going to swallow his own tongue and die of sex with Frank, which would totally be worth it, but of course he didn't. Frank slid down further, his mouth hot and wet and his tongue doing things that should be illegal if they weren't already, and Gerard was going to last maybe ten seconds and it was probably more like five. Everything whited out for a long second.

When Gerard opened his eyes, there was some come on Frank's face and it was much hotter than it should be. Frank was looking for someplace to spit, but they were in the tent, after all, so he just sort of shrugged and swallowed. That, too, was hotter than it should have been.

Frank wiped his mouth— probably on Gerard's shirt— and Gerard tried to say something but that part of him wasn't really working yet, so he just sort of grabbed Frank and hauled him close. They were both still panting and fucking drenched in sweat, but they were probably covered in each other's sweat already, so they just curled up.

It had gotten dark at some point and Gerard sighed softly, more content then he could ever remember being before, and splayed a hand across Frank's back. Frank hummed in response but Gerard thought he was mostly asleep already. Gerard himself only had about a minute to hazily contemplate how really fucking in love he was he before he slipped into sleep.

 

They weren't woken until reveille the next morning. During the night one of them had pulled the blankets up and the last thing Gerard wanted to do was get out of their cozy envelope. Frank was making whiny noises about washing up and he tricked Gerard by mentioning coffee, and once Gerard started thinking about coffee he couldn't stop thinking about it, so they dragged themselves out into the cold.

It was annoying and kind of gross to get dressed, messy as they were, but they had to get at least half dressed. There weren't any proper showers now, but they stole someone's unattended hot water and washed up the best they could. The water was so dirty it was really just replacing one layer of grime with another, but Frank insisted this was clean dirt, whatever that meant.

Only then did he allow them to join everyone else at the mess. The coffee was weak but they let Gerard have three cups, and it was there, which was better than Gerard having to make it himself. They ate, although Frank still refused to eat eggs for breakfast, and then Gerard really had to go.

He felt a bit awkward because they hadn't mentioned what had happened, but they'd been surrounded by other people so of course they couldn't. Not that Gerard had any idea what he'd say. Gerard mostly had to concentrate on walking and sitting like he hadn't gotten fucked in the ass last night, and that actually required a lot of concentration.

He really wasn't looking forward to the ride back, either. Betsy didn't have any shock absorbers left, if she'd ever had them at all.

They stood awkwardly by the ambulance to say goodbye. Soldiers were running all over the place so they kept a respectable distance between their bodies, no matter how badly Gerard wanted reassurance.

"So," Frank said, scuffing his foot in the dirt, "will you be back this way soon?"

"I don't know," Gerard said, being honest but not happy about it. Things were getting crazy everywhere; it wasn't like before, when a semi-regular schedule was possible. Gerard wished he'd met Frank in 1915. "I hope so," he added.

Frank nodded, hands in his pockets. A trumpet sounded somewhere and Frank made a face. "I guess I have to go," he said.

"Yeah, me too," Gerard sighed. This sucked. He didn't want this to be awkward but he didn't know how to fix it in public and right now it was so awkward it was painful.

He held out his hand and Frank took it. Shaking hands felt kind of ridiculous after last night, but Frank squeezed his hand tightly and Gerard squeezed back and that was a little better. They were holding hands too long; someone would see. Gerard reclaimed his hand, conscious of the way Frank's fingers dragged across his palm. It made him think of Frank's hands on him the night before and he fought not to blush.

"Stay safe," Gerard murmured.

"You too."

Gerard forced himself to turn away and climb into the ambulance. Frank cranked for him and waved briefly. Gerard consciously did not look into the rearview mirror until he was sure Frank would be out of sight.

~~~~

It was time for the second phase of the offensive. When the whistles blew this morning, William and his shrunken unit had scrambled over the top and picked their way through the barbed wire cloud, this one in relatively good condition, for once.

They'd run off course to avoid an incoming mortar, which landed on the group in front of William, all of whom simply disappeared. It looked that way from a distance, anyway. Once it was time to run around the crater left by the mortar, the ground was slippery with blood and other, less easily identifiable, bits of human. Then the smoke had gotten bad, and now they weren't exactly sure where they were.

"I think our lines are behind us," Carden said, squinting over his shoulder. "Should we go that way or onward?"

William checked his watch. "I think it's too early to go back. I guess… go on."

He checked to make sure Sisky hadn't wandered off, then plunged down a hill, between tree stumps that came up about to their shoulders. The smoke got worse, but at least it was all breathable.

"It's like a pea soup fog," the Butcher said, holding his hand out in front of him and waving it around, to see how far he could see it.

"I think there's something down there," Sisky said, pointing to the bottom of the hill.

There was a trench at the bottom, so they jumped into it. It was a German trench, all cement walls and deep cuts, and there wasn't any good reason to leave it. William picked a direction, and off they went, zigzagging along in relative comfort and safety.

When the trench ended they climbed back out, and William spent a couple minutes blinking at the sight that greeted them. It was an actual real forest, more or less, with trees that looked like they might still be alive.

"What the fuck?" Carden said. "Like seriously, what the fuck?"

Sisky rested his chin on William's shoulder. "What do we do, boss?"

 _Trees,_ William thought. "Let's go in."

Rifles at the ready, they picked their way over fallen branches, some clearly torn off by gunfire. Smoke hung in the air, the trees blocking the wind from blowing it away. Distant gunfire continued as always, but in the woods the immediate silence was heavy. No birds, no rustling of branches or undergrowth.

William had hoped there might be a rabbit to eat or something, but now he was starting to think that this had not been such a good idea. Visibility was even lower than on the battlefield.

"Maybe we should go back," Sisky whispered.

"Nah, we're all right," Mike said. "We're safer in here than out there."

The Butcher stayed quiet, but he looked watchful, eyes rapidly skittering from side to side. William looked around at Butcher and Sisky and Mike, all looking at him, worried but trusting, and William thought _Oh my God. Someone left me in charge of people's_ lives.

Which was, of course, when the rustling behind him started up.

~~~~

Pete had been staring at the map so long it had stopped making sense. "We're pushing through well," Patrick said, for the millionth time. "There's no point in worrying about anyone, sir, because there's nothing you can do at this point." Also for the millionth time.

Pete ran his hand through his hair, tugging on it in frustration. At least Patrick was in here with him, safe, no matter how annoying he was being at the moment.

"What are you going to do after the war, Patrick?" Pete asked, still staring blearily at the meaningless map.

"I— oh. Well, I'll go back home to Chicago and get a job, I suppose."

"What job? Where?"

"Um, well. Working for my father, I guess."

"And? What does he do? Why the reticence, Patrick Stump?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Why do you care? Sir. My father is a shopkeeper. Why shouldn't I be one, too?"

Pete looked at him. Patrick looked indignant, arms folded, a glare on his rumpled face. Even his hat looked indignant. Pete smiled.

"Maybe you're made for bigger and better things, Patrick Martin von Stump."

Patrick sighed. "Look, er, sir—" but then he stopped, and cocked his head, listening to something. Pete heard it a moment later, the whistle of a shell. They always said you never heard the shell that hit you, but Pete heard this one.

~~~~

"Heavy shellfire in shallow trenches," Schechter said. "The trenches look decimated, it's a huge mess. Everyone needs to get over there, and Ways, that means you, too." They were trying to eat but when Schechter gave them the sector number, Mikey dropped his fork and stood up.

"What?" Gerard asked, scrambling to his feet after Mikey. "Mikey, what's going on?"

Mikey's shoulders were hunched and there were unusual lines around his mouth. "That's Pete's sector."

"Oh, fuck," Gerard sighed. They ran to Betsy, who of course didn't want to start. Gerard cranked until he thought his arm would fall off before the engine finally turned over. One of these days they were going to lose her completely; with their luck they'd be behind enemy lines or something when she died for real.

It was a fucking Jericho bombardment all over, both sides letting go with everything they had. Gerard automatically identified the guns by sound. Mortars, Minnies, Big Bertha, Jack Johnson, the French 79s, Lewis, Gattling, Howitzer, Maxim. Gerard hunched over the wheel, trying to will Betsy over potholes.

Gerard almost missed the sector, and if there hadn't been a fresh cloud of black smoke, he might have overshot it. The trenches weren't there any more, not really. The ground had been blasted open, duckboards, corrugated iron, and bits of people's lives scattered across what was left.

And yet there were survivors; plenty of brown-suited figures, indistinguishable from each other, were visible through the smoke. Some were upright; most were not.

"Oh fuck," Mikey whispered, and then they threw open the doors and ran for the stretcher.

~~~~

Pete's ears were ringing. He tried to wipe some mud away from his face but it turned out to be blood. He thought he should go get that taken care of, so he got up and tried to find a medic. But Pete couldn't seem to find his way. The trenches were all wrong and Pete wasn't sure where he was or where he was supposed to be going.

Patrick would know…

Pete looked around. Somehow, he'd misplaced Patrick. "That was careless," he said out loud. He could barely hear his own voice; everything was wavery like he was under water.

Had they been hit by a shell? It didn't seem possible.

But they had, and Pete started running, or at least stumbling at a fast pace, back the way he'd come. Patrick must still be in the dugout.

"Patrick!" he shouted. "Patrick, where did you go?"

"Captain Wentz!" There was a hand on his shoulder.

He turned around but it was Lt. Trohman. "Where's Patrick?" Pete asked.

"Stump? I don't know, isn't he with you?"

"He was…" Pete turned away. He had to get back. Trohman followed, talking at him, but Pete didn't hear any of it.

The dugout had collapsed. Pete tried to remember getting out, but all he remembered was standing up and walking.

"PATRICK!" he shouted.

 _Patrick's dead_ said the nasty black voice in Pete's mind.

"No!" he said.

"Captain _Wentz!_ "

Pete pushed past Joe and got down on his belly to look under the fallen ceiling. "Patrick! Where are you?"

"Wentz," he felt Joe's hand on his shoulder but he shrugged him off.

Pete jumped to his feet— then had to pause and get his feet when his vision spun. "Help me, Lieutenant," he said to Trohman, then bent down and grabbed one end of the corrugated sheet. Trohman grabbed the other corner and they both heaved, but the ceiling wouldn't come all the way up.

"We need more people if we want to lift it," Trohman said. "But to be honest, Captain… I hope he's not under there."

"Then let's go find some," Pete said, his jaw set. It was possible Patrick wasn't under there; he'd keep looking.

They clawed their way through the mud, sand from burst sandbags, and bodies until they reached what used to be the secondary line and went up. Pete stopped everyone alive, to ask if they'd seen Patrick.

When he and Joe made it up to near the road, Pete shouted "Patrick!" several more times and looked around, trying to use the small vantage point to spot him.

"Pete!"

He turned and saw Mikey Way and stumbled over, shook him by the shirtfront. "Patrick! Have you seen Patrick?"

"What? No. Isn't he—"

"I don't know where he is! I was with him and there was a shell and now I don't know where he is. I can't lose him! He-- he makes the sun rise!"

"He what?"

"He makes the sun rise! Mikey, we have to find him!"

"Really? Okay," Mikey said, twining his fingers through Pete's. "It'll be okay. We'll find him."

~~~~

William's line of sight was extended by the bayonet, and he was grateful he'd hadn't taken it off as he usually did. This would be their first real hand-to-hand combat, if it was indeed the Boche coming out of the trees.

It was one man, all alone, and when he saw four rifles pointed at him he put his hands up. He was also an ANZAC, which made William lower his rifle. He was secretly very, very relieved.

"Hey," said the ANZAC. "Do you blokes know where the hell we are?"

They didn't, but when William admitted this to the ANZAC, whose name turned out to be Chislett, he didn't seem too fussed. "Still better to be lost together," he said.

~~~~

Four people were able to lift the corrugated iron roof, and as soon as there was space Pete dove underneath it. "PATRICK!"

He slithered into what had once been his dugout. It looked completely unrecognizable now. Pete tried to remember where Patrick had been standing, and crawled toward the crumpled remains of the desk.

He saw a boot, peeking around the corner, and Pete threw himself at it. The boot turned into Patrick's leg and then Patrick. There was some blood on his face and his eyes were closed. Pete wrapped a hand around each of Patrick's ankles and pulled. He touched Patrick's cheek as soon as he could reach. It was warm.

"Pete!" Pete looked over his shoulder and saw Mikey crouching down, peering in.

"I found him!" Pete shouted back.

"Get the fuck out of there," Mikey said.

Pete dragged Patrick toward the opening, and Mikey wiggled part-way in to help him. Together they dragged and pushed Patrick out. Pete barely noticed Blackinton and Suarez had shown up with Gabe and Navarro. He was too busy leaning over Patrick, watching Mikey check on him.

"He's alive," Mikey said. "Let's get him back to the CCS."

"I want to come," Pete said immediately.

"You really probably should," Mikey agreed.

"WHAT," Gerard shouted. He dropped his corner of the roof, so it was a good thing they'd already crawled out.

Pete and Mikey looked up. Blackinton was talking, telling them what he'd heard on the radio, but it wasn't making much sense to Pete.

"They said the shelling's collapsed some of the tunnels, and the sapping team hasn't returned," Blackinton repeated. He looked confused, and worried, possibly about Gerard, who looked exceptionally pale, even for him.

"Gee—" Mikey said.

"I have to go," Gerard looked at Mikey, and Pete thought they were doing their freaky brother-brain talk again.

"You'll need a pass to cross those sector lines," Navarro said quietly.

"Who has paper?"

"Here," Gabe fished in his pockets. "I've got a bunch. Here." He handed over a little card.

Joe took it and wrote on it, cramped writing since the paper was tiny, and then pushed the card and pencil into Pete's hands. "Sign this."

Gerard was glaring at him. Pete signed.

Gerard grabbed the paper, squeezed Mikey's shoulder, and took off at a run.

Mikey sighed. "We're going to need to find a different ambulance."

~~~~

It wasn't a very long drive, even with the sectors in such bad shape. Gerard looked at the front— shelling had died off here but snipers were still active. He ran for an intact dugout at a crouch. There were a couple of lieutenants in there, surrounded by noncoms.

"Who's in charge?" Gerard demanded.

The lieutenants looked at each other. "I think I am," one said. "Everyone else is dead."

"Okay," Gerard said, brandishing his pass, "I need you to show me where your sappers went in. I'm here to get them out."

Gerard had to go over the top and through some wire to get there. It looked like a foxhole. For some reason Gerard thought it would look like the entrance to a mine shaft, but this was much smaller. And very dark.

For a moment, Gerard hated Frank, because until Frank showed up, Gerard had stopped being scared.

~~~~

Jon got nicked in the arm by a bullet. "It's fine," he said, watching Spencer tie it up. Brendon wondered if Ryan would fuss over Brendon like that if Brendon got hit.

"You should still go back," Ryan said to Jon.

None of them were supposed to go back with him. They all exchanged uneasy glances.

"I'll be fine," Jon said. "I can walk fine. I just have to go get it cleaned." He smiled at them. "I just have to make it back to Zack, right, and then he'll take me to the medic."

"I guess," Spencer said reluctantly. Brendon looked away from the way Jon and Spencer were looking at each other. Ryan was scouting around, not paying attention.

"I think you'd better go now," Ryan said.

Jon squeezed Spencer's hand and knocked his fist against Brendon's and Ryan's shoulders. He went back, and the rest of them reluctantly went forward.

~~~~

He couldn't see down there, couldn't see at all, so Gerard had to make his way by feeling. It would cut up his hands and infect them with everything living in the mud (because it wasn't just mud, it was the sludge of thousands of decaying bodies), but the lights weren't working, not any of them.

He smelled, for a moment, the scent of fresh hay. Before his brain had time to fully process that thought, his body had jerked him back. Gerard fumbled in his shirtfront, not breathing, as the mask caught on buttons and God alone knew what else. Gerard almost dropped it as it sprang free unexpectedly— thought, for a heart-stopping second, that he had lost it— but his clumsy fingers managed to retain some grip. More fumbling as he tried to tell the front, lungs burning, eyes starting to sting, maybe skin too. He found the round blobs of the eyes and oriented himself, then at last pulled on the mask, settled, took a cautious breath, wondering how much gas had gotten trapped inside with him.

Gerard ignored the voice asking him how he would even know if he went blind in here, and pushed down the tunnel. His breath, caught and amplified by the mask, was even louder. It was hot just around his head and cold everywhere else. _Don't think about it,_ he told himself firmly, remembering what Frank had said.

Gerard had no real idea of how long he'd been down there or how far he had come. Perhaps this field had become as honeycombed as Messines Ridge before it was blown up, miles and miles of tunnels.

Something grabbed his foot.

Gerard shrieked and shook his foot but whatever had caught him stayed wrapped around his foot; it traveled with his foot, though, and that was strange. Gerard bent down and felt around his ankle with both hands. Whatever was trapping him was in some places smooth and in some places rough, it was hard, and cold, and greasy, as distinct from the mud. It was an extremely odd shape. Gerard thought of those covered boxes with a hole in the front kids stick their hands into to show their daring.

Gerard felt at the thing a bit more until he realized, with a sort of distant, light surprise, that it was an intact pelvis, the bones still joined together with the sacrum and he'd put his foot right in the middle. It must have been in the wall and been shaken loose by the explosion.

"How silly," Gerard said, out loud. He kicked at the pelvis around his foot until whatever scraps of tissue were holding it together broke and his foot kicked free.

He pressed on, kicking his feet a bit in front of him to clear his path, at least until he decided it slowed his going too much. He still managed to find a bit of collapsed ceiling with his boot first, for which he was grateful. It was large enough that Gerard took the time to light a lucifer. Timbers lay cracked and entangled with mud and wire. They did not block the whole passage, though. Gerard had no time to see what lay beyond before the match died.

"No matter," he said. Climbing over the barricade felt like crossing the Rubicon.

~~~~

The five of them— William, his unit, and the ANZAC— wandered through the forest. Most of the time, no one shot at them, so it was actually kind of nice. The others seemed happy enough, but William felt like the weight of each of them was on his shoulders. Was this how he was supposed to have felt all along? How on earth did Pete do it?

"I don't think we're going the right way, sir," the Butcher whispered in his ear. They'd been walking through the forest for a couple of hours at least.

"I know," William whispered back. "But I don't know where else to go." It belatedly occurred to him that he probably shouldn't have admitted that he didn't know what he was doing.

The trees and the fog all looked the same, and it was quiet— so sweetly quiet, although they could of course still hear distant booms— but if the world was ending out there, it didn't involve them.

"It's like it's not real," Chislett whispered, his voice carrying well in the fog.

"Maybe we're not real," Sisky said. "Maybe we're dead." He didn't sound too upset.

"We're not dead," William said sharply anyway.

"No shit," Travis said.

There was jumping and screaming, although not like a girl, and it was not a squeal, Mike Carden, shut up.

"What are you doing here?" William asked, still trying to get his breath back. His heart was going that fast.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Travis countered. "You are way the hell off course if you're over here with us, Beckett." His Buffalo Soldiers were looking at William with amused curiosity.

William straightened his shoulders and tossed his hair. "We're just really far in advance," he sniffed.

"You're really far to the north, Billiam." Travis smiled like he was trying not to laugh in William's face in front of his men. "You have no idea where you are, do you?"

"Of course I do," William said, with all the dignity he could muster (which was considerable). "I'm with you. In France."

Travis and his men laughed. William ignored them. "Well, we're glad you found us," Travis said, still chortling.

~~~~

Gerard felt like he'd been in this tunnel forever, that he was trapped in a nightmare designed by Dante and Bosch and he would only keep going forever, never finding Frank, never reaching a destination, never again emerging into the light. There were so many tunnels under the Western Front by this point that if they all just connected, it was probably possible to spend the rest of your life wandering them.

Gerard pulled off his gasmask and tucked it in his belt. The air didn't smell good but it didn't smell like gas, either. His face did sting a bit, though, and he through drearily that perhaps he would be burned now. "Frank!" he shouted, but of course there was no answer.

Gerard was starting to get bored, after settling into a sort of passive hopelessness, when he walked into a wall of dirt. Another lucifer, and he saw that this blocked the entire passageway. A tiny spark of hope flared inside before he quashed it. No point doing that until he knew what was on the other side.

Gerard put his mask back on and hacked at the wall with his spade. The clay was hard to shift and had to be manually pulled away instead of falling like dirt. Gerard worked at his little hole until the spade sunk through cleanly, into open air.

"Hello?" Gerard called, voice probably distorted past recognizing by the mask.

"Hello?" came a weak echo. For a moment, Gerard thought that was all it was, too afraid to be wrong.

"Hello?" it came again, all on its own.

Gerard moved next to the hole, stumbling over something, and tried to peer through. At that moment, a light, terrifically bright after so long in the pitch black, shone out and filled Gerard's vision.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

It was a torch, of course it was. A pocket flashlight. Which was something Gerard was seriously buying as soon as he got the opportunity.

"How many are you?" Gerard asked.

"Um, I think… two. Two left."

Gerard couldn't ask the next question. He struggled with himself for a moment, then managed to spit out "Can you walk?"

"Yes, I think so."

Why wasn't the other person talking, if he was indeed still alive?

"Can you help me with this?" Gerard asked, meaning the hole.

"I— it's tricky. There's explosives all around, that scattered when— when the explosion happened."

Gerard closed his eyes and leaned his head against the blockage, just for a moment. He'd known, of course, that there must be a reason they hadn't dug themselves out.

"Can you pass me that torch?"

Gerard got a glimpse of a pale, dirty face before the torch was waved through the hole. Gerard used it to examine the base of the obstruction on his side. There did not seem to be sticks of dynamite lying around out here, but there quite possibly was under the collapsed earth.

For a moment, Gerard hoped there was.

"Where's Frank?" he asked, before knowing he was going to.

"Gerard?" The voice sounded hazy, even accounting for the gas mask, but the sound was still familiar.

Gerard sat down quite suddenly. He really hadn't been expecting that.

He was going to sob, he started to cry, but crying in a gas mask was awful, so he stopped himself.

"Hello, Frank. Lying down on the job?"

There was a silence and then Frank said, "Pinned to the ground. Beam fell."

Oh, God. Just when it seemed like it would be all right. Gerard saw himself on the other side, pulling the stake out of Frank. Frank bleeding to death before they left the tunnel.

"We were in the front, so we didn't get crushed," said the other guy. "The other two, they're… they're buried under that pile. Mostly."

Gerard took off his mask and forced himself to his feet. "What's your name, kid?"

"Cortez," he said quietly.

"All right, Cortez." Gerard closed his eyes as he spoke. "You're going to help me enlarge this hole. You can push the dirt out, towards me. It's safe." _Or at least if it isn't, we'll never know._ "We have to get it pretty big, I'm afraid."

Cortez pushed and Gerard pulled, and they made a hole as large as they dared. Large enough to get a man through, anyway, providing he was skinny. Providing adding weight didn't set off the dynamite. Gerard tried to empty his mind, took a deep breath, and crawled through with the torch.

He ignored Cortez and picked his way through the detritus to Frank's side and dropped to his knees. The beam, or slice of beam, had staked Frank through his shoulder. Gerard wiped some mud or blood or something off Frank's cheek.

"Hi there," he whispered.

Frank fluttered his eyelashes at him. "You," he whispered. His breathing was labored. "Took your fucking time."

"Fuck you," Gerard said automatically, smiling a little. "You're not the only guy on the Western Front, you know." Except of course he was.

Gerard looked at the stake. "This is gonna hurt like nothing else, you know that?"

Frank shrugged, using only his face. "Everything hurts."

Fair point.

Gerard belatedly looked up and remembered Cortez, who had been standing silent and watchful, and probably had their number by now. Gerard didn't really give a flying fuck.

"Hold him still," Gerard said. "I have to break the wood."

Cortez murmured something that was probably a curse word, then sank down on the other side of Frank and gingerly draped himself across Frank's upper body. Gerard balanced the torch upright a few feet away. He wrapped his hand around the splintering wood to get a feel for it. It was too thick to break with his hands, of course.

"I'm sorry," he said, but couldn't look at Frank. He whacked at the wood with a sharp-edged spade; Frank passed out after the third blow, thank God. Gerard could work a bit faster after that, and once he was over halfway through he dropped the spade and bent the wood until it cracked.

There was now a much more manageable hunk of wood in Frank's shoulder. "Okay," Gerard said, still breathing hard, "let's pull him up."

He slid his hand under Frank's back, trying to avoid the injury, and on the count of three they lifted him into a sitting position. Frank spun into consciousness long enough to throw up all over all of them before swooning again.

Gerard pulled Frank against him, feeling selfish for a moment. Frank groaned and rolled his head. He murmured something, and at first Gerard thought it was _"Je suis finis,"_ and Gerard was about to argue with him, but then he realized it was more like _"C'est suffit,"_ or _"Ça suffit."_

Gerard kissed Frank's dirty hair. "That's right," he whispered. "That's enough."

He tried lifting Frank to his feet but needed Cortez's help. Frank helped a little walking to the barrier. Cortez went through first, and then they shoved Frank through. It must have been very painful, because Frank whimpered and was covered with sweat by the time he made it through. Gerard collected the torch and Frank and Cortez's packs and passed them through. _Back with your pack or on it._

He crawled back through himself. Cortez was more or less upright, but Frank had slumped to the ground again.

"Put on your mask," Gerard said finally. "There's gas."

 

Whether it was because of the torch, or if it was just the immutable law of the universe that the first time a distance is traveled is always the longest, the trip back was faster, despite Frank being on the verge of collapse.

In what seemed like no time, comparatively, they'd reached the first barricade. That one was easy to get Frank over. Gerard made sure their masks were secure. Even so, Gerard held his breath as they limped through the gas. With no wind, who knew how long it would stay there? It might poison the ground for a hundred years.

They left the gas behind but did not remove their masks. Gerard wasn't doing any critical thinking at this point; all that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other and dragging Frank along with him.

If he hadn't been wearing the mask he might have felt the fresh air before he noticed the light. It was piercing and sharp, the way light shining into dark places always is. Later, Gerard never had any memories of the last few hundred feet. One blink they were in the dark, heading up; the next there was the surface and the light and the rain.

~~~~

Jon was already back in the dugout with Zack by the time Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer made it back.

"The CCS is a mess," Jon said, waving at them. "Completely packed. Total chaos."

Zack fussed over them as they shed their packs, helmets, and boots, and he kept Jon sitting down.

"Every one should have a German," Brendon announced as Zack passed out coffee. "Seriously, Zack, you're the best thing that ever happened to us."

Zack snorted.

"You really pretty much are," Jon agreed. He looked relaxed and his pupils were dilated, so the medics must have given him something nice when they'd bandaged his arm.

"I have to admit," Spencer smiled, "I'm really glad you're still here."

"I told you it was a good idea," Ryan said, slumping down against Spencer's shoulder.

Zack looked like he was blushing, so there really was a first time for everything. "It is better than a POW camp," he said. "And my English is getting much better."

They assured him his English was excellent.

"What will you do after the war, Zack?" Spencer asked.

"Go back home, of course," Zack said. "My wife and children."

Which was how they remembered Spencer hadn't seen the pictures yet, so Zack had to show Spencer the pictures of his family, and Spencer oohed and ahhed appropriately.

"Do you want to come to America?" Brendon asked. "You really should."

"We'll write you letters of recommendation," Ryan said. "I mean, if that would help. Would it help?"

Spence looked doubtful. "I don't know. But of course we would, I mean, if you wanted."

Zack looked amused— and maybe a little touched— but he didn't say one way or the other.

~~~~

When Gerard woke up he was flat on his back and the light was killing him. "Can't someone turn that down?" he croaked from behind shut eyes.

"Turn what down?" a female voice asked.

"That light," Gerard whispered. Talking hurt his head. The light hurt his head. Breathing hurt his head. Thinking was hurting his head. Being alive hurt his head.

"Sorry," the voice said. "Can't turn down the sun." But he heard a sound he eventually recognized as screens being moved and the light dimmed against his eyelids. "That better?"

"Yes, thanks." Gerard cautiously peeled open his eyelids. Everything was sort of fuzzy and white. He blinked and his vision started to clear. A dark head moved into view over him. He was able to pick out a wide smile and eventually his sluggish brain _pinged._ "Nurse Ballato," he said. It sort of came out a question.

"Well, at least you didn't hit your head _that_ hard. How are you feeling, Mr. Way?"

"Um. Ow?"

She looked like she was trying not to giggle. "I thought so. Here, drink this."

She slid an arm under his head (ow) to help him raise it enough. "What is it?" Gerard said suspiciously.

"Coffee." She tilted the cup enough for him to see— and now he could smell it, too. It was possible there was something in the world that smelled better, but Gerard doubted it.

"You are amazing," he said, and tried to grab the cup. She didn't let go but helped him drink, murmuring a warning about it being hot. It could have been the temperature of lava and burned his tongue away for all Gerard cared, as long as it was coffee.

She didn't let him chug it all at once but made him sip. After half the cup she made him take a break. Gerard gazed up at her in wide-eyed admiration. "You brought me coffee."

"Yes, I did," she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.

"I love you," Gerard said.

Nurse Ballato snorted. "I'll assume you're talking to the coffee. Finish your coffee, Mr. Way."

He did, and it was perfect, and Gerard lay back and savored the last of the coffee on his tongue. He shut his eyes and listened to Nurse Ballato tidying the bedside table. His fingers twitched against the sheets, restless. "If you have cigarettes," he said, blinking at her, "I'll marry you."

She bit her lip. "Must be my lucky day," she said. "All out."

Gerard sighed, as tragically as he could (and Gerard was good at tragic), and Nurse Ballato giggled. "But I think I might know someone who might. Your brother's pretty eager to see you."

"Mikey!" Gerard tried to sit up but Nurse Ballato pushed him firmly back down. Gerard noticed that, in addition to his head, absolutely everything else on his body also ached.

"You stay in bed. I'll go get him. I'm serious, Mr. Way, don't you dare move. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Gerard mumbled. Nurse Ballato nodded approvingly, gave him a scary, threatening look they must teach them in nurse training to make sure he stayed put, and bustled off around the screens.

Gerard was anxious to see Mikey and for the first time started to remember how he'd ended up in hospital. It happened, sometimes, they could get hurt in No Man's Land like anyone else… but…

But they hadn't been in No Man's Land. At least not on the surface. He'd been underground with the sappers _ohgod ohgod_ he'd forgotten how had he _forgotten…_

"Frank!" Gerard burst out as Mikey came around the screens.

Mikey frowned. "Gee, no, I'm Mi—"

"I know you're Mikey!" Gerard waved his hands impatiently. _"What happened to Frank?"_

~~~~

Pete sat by Patrick's bed and waited, more still and patient than he'd ever been in his life.

He was the first to see Patrick's eyelids flutter the following day, and Pete leaned over, watching carefully. Patrick opened his eyes and jumped.

"Jesus!"

Pete grinned. "Close, but not quite. Good morning, Lieutenant Patrick Stump."

"Don't do that," Patrick said. "It's fucking creepy." He was making his cranky face. Pete had never seen anything so lovely.

He squeezed Patrick's hand. "I'm really glad you're awake," he said.

Nurse Salpeter noticed them then and got Dr. Bryar and forced Pete to stand outside the screens while they examined Patrick, which was ridiculous, because Pete belonged to Patrick.

He danced impatiently outside the screens until Nurse Salpeter threw a pillow at his head.

He was finally allowed back at Patrick's bedside. "He should be fine," Dr. Bryar said. "He got very lucky. Very, very, very lucky."

"Where's my hat?" Patrick asked suddenly, his hand flying up to feel only bandages and hair.

"Your hat suffered extreme casualties," Pete said. "I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do. It's missing in action, presumed deceased."

"Shut up," Patrick said, and folded his arms.

Bryar and Salpeter laughed and left, although not without warning Pete to not overexcite Patrick.

"I can't help it!" Pete shouted after them. "My mere presence is so stimulating!"

"You're so embarrassing," Patrick said.

Pete beamed at him. "You're okay! Patrick— I need to talk to you. It's important." He reached out to take Patrick's hand. Patrick tried to pull away, but Pete was persistent and in better shape than Patrick at the moment.

"Look," Pete said. He clenched his other hand in his lap to keep from putting it all over Patrick. "If-- when we get home, I think I'm gonna open a club. A real, proper place with singing and performing, because let's face it, I don't know shit about cooking. Uh. And. Well, Patrick, you can sing-- shut up, I've heard you, I know what I'm talking about." He leaned over Patrick. Patrick wanted to argue, Pete had to make him understand. "You're amazing, Patrick. I want you to come with me. Work for me. No, I mean, work _with_ me. I'll make you an equal partner." Patrick's mouth was open, but he seemed stunned into silence. Pete wanted to press his advantage while he could. "Patrick, I need you. I need you. And I need you to understand that."

Patrick just stared at him blankly.

Pete slid off his chair and got down on one knee.

"Oh my God," Patrick said, and struggled to get free. But Pete had a firm grip on his hand and the sheets were tucked in tightly around Patrick's legs.

"I'm making you a serious proposal here, Patrick Stump. Me and you, partners, forever. I mean, if you don't want to, I can't force you, but I will follow you around the world pleading with you, and you know you'll have to give in eventually just to make me stop. You can run but you can't hide. And. So. It'll be faster and better for everyone if you just give in now." He beamed at Patrick hopefully.

Patrick had gone still and was staring at Pete with his mouth open. "Do you even know what you're saying?"

Pete's face fell a little; he couldn't help it. "I've been thinking about this since I met you."

"I don't know what to say."

"'Yes' is usually acceptable."

"I," Patrick blinked. "I, yes, then, I guess. I don't seem to have a choice."

"You really don't." Pete bounced to his feet, grinning so that he thought even his face might split. He let go of Patrick's hand and tucked the sheets in around Patrick instead. "Get your rest, now. You'll need it!" He winked. "I'll go publish the banns!" He bussed Patrick's forehead and danced out of the way.

"You'll _what the fuck?_ Pe— WENTZ! WHAT DID I JUST AGREE TO?"

But Pete was already around the screens, skipping out of the ward. He felt like he could fly today if he just jumped high enough. Of course, then he'd probably be shot down, so Pete stuck to skipping.

~~~~

They hadn't put Frank in the moribund ward, although Gerard didn't know whether that was because he was doing well or because they didn't want to have to tell Gerard they'd put Frank in the moribund ward. Either way, Gerard was grateful.

He ran into Frank's ward and almost ran over Nurse Simmons. Her eyes widened, and before Gerard could say anything, she pointed. He took off in that direction and found Frank fairly easily, despite how crowded the ward was.

His arm was still on, so there was that. Two arms, two legs. Gerard put a hand to Frank's forehead and winced when he felt how hot Frank's skin was.

"It's not that bad," Nurse Simmons said quietly behind him. "He's going to have a fever at this stage no matter what."

Gerard looked up at her, and at Mikey standing next to her. "I don't really remember what happened," he said, "after we hit the surface."

"I found you," Mikey said. "I went over there as soon as I could. As soon as you got out of the tunnel you all collapsed, but there were plenty of guys standing around to carry all of you to Betsy. Came straight here."

"Thanks," Gerard smiled at him.

Ray came by soon and assured Gerard that he'd saved Frank's life. Frank woke up, sort of, to have some water when Nurse Simmons changed his bandage and carefully cleaned the wound.

When Frank was stable enough, Gerard and Mikey loaded him into Betsy, along with five other patients, to drive to a real field hospital. Gerard drove as carefully as could, but he felt the shock of every pothole and his nerves zinged as the ambulance swayed from side to side.

Everyone survived the trip though, and Frank was soon swallowed up by the unfamiliar hospital. Gerard was unhappy about leaving him there— he didn't trust hospitals, not at all, what with their 'Flu and their infections and their God knew what else— but they had a lot of wounded to transport. The 'Flu season seemed to be dying down anyway, as Ray reminded them when they got back to CCS 33 for the next load.

They drove back and forth for hours. Gerard and Mikey traded off driving and napping, but Gerard still felt like the walking dead when they finally stopped for a few hours. "It's because we haven't had any coffee," Mikey said, but they both actually passed up coffee in favor of sleep.

Gerard didn't so much fall asleep as pass out, still recovering himself. He did have gas burns on his face and hands, and they itched, but were painful to scratch. It was like having chicken pox again.

Frank was sitting up when they finally found him again. His eyes widened when he saw them, but waited until they were at his bedside before speaking. "You look like shit," he said to Gerard.

"You look about a hundred times worse," Gerard replied.

"Mikey looks good though. Hi, Mikey."

Mikey snorted. "Of course I look good. I'm not a crazy motherfucker like you two."

Frank stared at Gerard, and Gerard was oddly reminded of their first meeting. "You really did go down into the tunnel and drag me out, didn't you?"

Gerard shifted, suddenly embarrassed. "Well… yeah."

Frank was still staring at him. In a low voice, he said, "If there weren't fifty people in this room right now…"

"Should I leave?" Mikey asked.

Gerard blushed and bit his lip so he wouldn't grin.

A nurse bustled up to check on Frank, startling all of them. Gerard eyed her nervously. According to Mikey, all the nurses at CCS 33 knew about him and Frank somehow (when he'd asked, Mikey had just shrugged and said "They're nurses," as if that was any kind of answer) and thought it was cute, or something (also according to Mikey), but this was a stranger and she looked extremely stern and even scarier than any of the of CCS 33 nurses. She was also old enough to be their mother.

They all shut up and Gerard and Mikey backed out of her way. She changed Frank's bandage and put his arm in a sling (over his protests), glared at Gerard and Mikey _for no reason,_ and left without speaking.

Frank made a face at her back. "Let's get out of here," he said. "The nurses aren't even pretty. And she hurt me!"

Mikey giggled.

"Seriously?" Gerard asked.

Frank rolled his eyes. "Yes. Or I'll get 'Flu and die. Or I'll get TB and die. Or get killed by the nurses. I can walk perfectly. It's just my arm. And I don't need this sling." He plucked at it.

Gerard knocked Frank's hand away. "Stop that. You had a fucking _tree_ through your shoulder, okay, you need a fucking sling."

Frank didn't argue further. He hadn't been quite accurate about walking "perfectly"— he'd lost a lot of blood— but in Gerard's opinion that wasn't enough to keep him in a potentially life-threatening hospital with mean, ugly nurses.

They didn't exactly smuggle him out— Gerard and Mikey filled out a transfer form— but they also didn't talk to any hospital staff while they did it.

Frank fell asleep as soon as they got back to the ambulance. They loaded the back up with men who needed a lift back to the front and set off, Betsy groaning on her axles. Mikey drove so Gerard sat in the middle with an arm around Frank, who dozed on his shoulder. They rolled the windows down, smoked, and the sun was shining. Fall was definitely in the air, though. Gerard tried not to think about anything past the present moment.

They stopped by Frank's old unit and let off their _poilu_ passengers. Frank checked in with his nominal CO, whom Frank had never actually met since he had been off training AEF sappers for four months. Frank came back rather subdued. "I have a medical board in a week," he reported.

He didn't say anything else until they'd stopped for the night at CCS 33. "I'm slightly more afraid of dying than I used to be," Frank said, looking out over the trenches. Gerard brushed his hand against Frank's. "Everyone I was with is dead," Frank added heavily. It wasn't that unusual. Gerard didn't say anything because there wasn't anything to say to that.

~~~~

Pete got a new field telephone installed, and it was possible he loved it a squidge more than he loved Patrick, but it was very close. He spent all day calling up and down the lines to talk to everyone he knew, and quite a few people he didn't.

There was lots to gossip about, too. Before the start of the Second Meuse-Argonne Offensive, which was just winding down, Prince Max, who was the new head of the German government, had asked President Wilson for an armistice but been refused by the generals, who wanted unconditional surrender. The general opinion was that unconditional surrender was fine for generals to want; the men on the front just wanted to stop and didn't give a rat's ass about terms. Turkey was seeking an armistice, too. The British had taken 20,000 German prisoners in one day. Ludendorff was replaced.

German morale was low— for real this time, instead of Allied command just making it up— and Allied morale was actually improving.

Breaking through the last lines of German defense would do that.

Pete saw nothing wrong in passing along all the gossip to Patrick, Andy, Joe, and whoever else happened to be in his office. "Some assholes are saying we'll be home by Christmas," Pete said.

Joe rolled his eyes. "Haven't they been saying that since 1914? And don't they know it makes it not true if you say it out loud?"

"I know!" Pete cried. "It's just careless, is what it is!"

Andy came in followed by Patrick, his new hat pulled low over his eyes. Pete suspected Patrick was trying to avoid him since the scene in the CCS ward, although he couldn't imagine why. He hadn't actually published marriage banns in _The Stars and Stripes,_ after all. He couldn't get the wording right.

"What are you going to do after the war?" Pete asked Joe and Andy. "Since the war might end sometime this century. Patrick and I are going to run a club. You should come in sometime and booze it up with us!"

Joe and Andy stared at Patrick, who turned a charming shade of crimson and tried to hide in the wall. "Seriously?" Andy asked, after a moment.

"Of course," Pete said, who didn't see what was so strange about this.

"Uh," said Joe, "what about the Prohibition amendment?"

Pete waved his hand. "Oh, that will never pass."

"Captain…" Andy started.

Patrick interrupted him. "It already passed!" he shouted at Pete. "What do you do on the 'phone all day? I thought you were gathering information!"

Pete was slightly offended and straightened up in his chair. "I gather relevant information!"

"You want to run a club and you don't think a _constitutional amendment banning alcohol_ is relevant?" Patrick had stopped being embarrassed and was glaring at Pete with his arms folded.

Joe and Andy exchanged a nervous glance and started backing out of the dugout.

"I didn't think it would _pass._ That's ridiculous!"

Patrick narrowed his eyes. "So what are you going to do now?"

"I'm sure _we'll_ think of something, Patrick."

"I really think we ought to maintain a professional relationship, Captain Wentz, as long we're still—"

Pete laughed and waved him off. "Oh come on, Patrick-y Stump. You can call me Pete. I think you should. I want you to."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Patrick said stiffly.

Pete sighed and rubbed his temples where pain had suddenly started stabbing him. "Look, Lt. Patrick, as long as we both survive this clusterfuck of a war, I don't care what we do afterwards. Or what you call me. As long as you're calling me something, you know?"

Patrick's face went all confused and there was a flash of something else Pete didn't quite understand. Without another word, Patrick gathered up some paperwork and fled.

"What the fuck was that?" Pete muttered. Then he picked up the phone to call Captain Walker and find out what the fuck this prohibition amendment thing was.

~~~~

Frank's shoulder was still stiff when he went for his medical board but the wound was healing nicely. Frank, though…

During the day he wasn't bad. He jumped a little at close shells and he was quieter than usual. Night, though, night was hard. Frank was now deeply opposed to dark enclosed spaces. Gerard wasn't too fond of them either, but Frank had once been right at home in them, and he kept forgetting and then having a panic attack. He didn't want to talk about it either, of course, because he was stupid in Gerard's opinion.

Sleeping in the ambulance was now totally out of the question. Luckily CCS 33 staff were now being boarded in an old farmhouse that was in pretty decent shape because Germans had been living in it for the past four years. They had hay piles up in the attic, near some big dormer windows that let in moonlight when any was on offer. The attic had even been divided into two, so Gerard and Mikey and Frank had a room mostly to themselves, although sometimes Ray or Bob would slip up there.

Frank came back from his medical board furious. He smoked and kicked things and cursed. Gerard and Mikey watched with interest until Frank collapsed on the stone bench next to them.

"Removed from active duty," Frank said.

 _Fucking_ thank you, Gerard thought.

Mikey and Gerard exchanged a look. Mikey slipped away.

"That's for the best, isn't it?" Gerard said gingerly. "I mean, you can't be a sapper anymore—" _with your nerves shot_ — "with your shoulder like that."

Frank ground out his fag with excessive intensity. "I don't want to be a sapper anymore," he admitted at last, "but I don't want to be a dog at headquarters." Frank was shaking with fury.

Gerard slowly leaned against Frank, and when he didn't get shaken off, he snaked his arms around Frank and squeezed. After a moment, Frank gave in and slumped against Gerard.

Gerard knew he should be furious on Frank's behalf, that no one wanted to be sidelined for war neurosis, but as he held Frank tightly all he could think was _Oh thank God, oh thank God._

After awhile Frank lay down and put his head in Gerard's lap. Gerard automatically started stroking his hair. "I went home once, in 1916, a Blighty one and all. I hated it. Everyone thinks you're noble and having fun and saving the world, and they have no idea. It's not real. This is all that's real, the front, with the mud and bombs and bodies everywhere. It's complete insanity, and it's the only real thing."

"Yeah," Gerard sighed. "I haven't been home at all. I haven't missed it."

"I don't want to be out of it," Frank said, blinking back tears. "Even though I hate it. Why is that? How does that work? How can both things be true at once?

"I saw a man stick his hand above the trench because he wanted to go home," Frank continued. "No one shot at him. So he waved it around and jumped to make it higher, and still no one shot at him. He started yelling 'Bloody Boche, just fucking shoot me already, are you all having a lie-in or what?' He was still shouting and waving his hand around when the lieutenant came round, so of course he was done for then. I don't even think he was a coward. He's the sane one, you know? Trying to save his own life."

They were silent for a long time, and then Frank said "It's my birthday tomorrow."

Gerard tugged at his hair. "You should have said something earlier, asshole."

Frank smiled. "Still time to get me a present."

Gerard tugged on Frank's hair again. He had a pretty good idea what to get him. Mikey would clear off for the night for a special occasion.

~~~~

On November 1, the third Meuse-Argonne Offensive started.

Pete watched the time tick down on his watch, whistle in his mouth, gun in hand, all officer insignia removed. Patrick was next to him, pale but determined. Pete caught his eye and winked. "Hell or glory," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Patrick smiled grimly.

It was 5:20 AM, so Pete blew his whistle and they all climbed over the top. Pete spit out the whistle, stood on top of the parapet, and shouted "Germany or bust!" A shot whizzed past him and pinged harmlessly off the metal behind him. Pete smiled. It was going to be a good day.

~~~~

They'd gotten split up again, and Jon and Spencer were out of sight— which was probably a good thing— but it was making Ryan anxious. "Stay here," Ryan whispered. "I'll just pop up for a look."

Brendon frowned— that sounded like a bad plan— but Ryan was already off. This field was an actual field, with high grass in it, because there hadn't been fighting here since 1914. It was impossible to see above the grass, unless you stood up, though, and therefore impossible to know what might be right next to you.

Ryan let out a yelp and there was a thunk.

"RYAN?" Brendon stupidly jumped to his feet and then tried to crouch at the last minute. He would have fallen over if he wasn't already running. Unlike Ryan, he stopped just in time.

There was a hole in the ground at his feet— a big hole, a regular square hole, and Brendon finally made sense of it as the basement of a destroyed house.

Ryan was lying in the bottom. "Ow," he said.

Brendon jumped down without hesitating further. "Are you okay, Ry?"

Ryan looked pale and there were tears in the corners of his eyes. "I think I broke my leg," he gasped.

"Oh shit," Brendon moaned. He took off his pack and helped Ryan take off his. "Is it your ankle?"

Ryan nodded. "Can't move my foot."

"Lay down," Brendon said gently, and forced Ryan onto his back when he resisted. "I knew we shouldn't have split up," Brendon worried. "If Jon and Spence were here they go could go look for stretcher bearers while I stayed with you but now they won't know where we are. _I_ don't know where we are. Do you? Ryan, what should I do?"

"I don't know," Ryan said, staring up at the sky. "Leave me here, carry on with the offensive. I never know what to do. Just, just find Spencer and Jon. I'll be fine here."

"Don't be stupid," Brendon said. "I can't leave you. I'll wait here with you. It's cold."

"You need to get away," Ryan said, shoving at Brendon weakly. "Just leave me, Brendon. That's an order."

Brendon didn't even acknowledge that. He tucked the sweater in his bag under Ryan's head and then curled up on Ryan's right side, away from the bad leg. Brendon really couldn't resist snuggling up to Ryan; to be honest, he didn't even try.

"What are you doing?" Ryan hissed. "Brendon, stop it! You need to get away. Go on. Get away from me!" It was awfully close to shouting, and Brendon looked up at Ryan in surprise.

"Why would I leave you? And no."

Ryan looked distressed, distressed like it wasn't just the leg. "You have to get away from me, Bren. I'm no good to anyone. Come on, just, just leave."

"You're going crazy from pain!" Brendon put a hand on Ryan's forehead to see if he was feverish. He felt sort of clammy, but he was cold, not warm. Brendon snuggled closer. Body heat, and all.

"Brendon," Ryan was whispering, but it was somehow even worse than the shouting. "Brendon, you have to get away from me. You can't do this. I'm no good."

"It's just a broken leg," Brendon said. He was afraid to look at Ryan, to see the expression on his face. "Someone will be along and we'll get you out and— hey, this is a really good Blighty one! I bet you'll be out for the rest of the war."

Actually, that made Brendon want to cry, but he was determined to be happy for Ryan. And he was actually happy that Ryan would be out and safe for the rest of the war.

"I don't— that's not important, Brendon, please pay attention. I'm no good for anyone, no matter what. All right? You need to leave me alone for your own good and stop being so, so…"

Brendon had to look at him now. "What are you talking about? Ryan? What are you talking about, 'no good to anyone'? You're just in pain and you don't—"

"I know what I'm saying!" Ryan shouted. "You need to get away from me, Brendon. You don't know." He tried shoving at Brendon, but Ryan was weak and Brendon was really good at clinging.

"Calm down, Ryan," Brendon said. He tried to shush him, but Ryan, stupidly, tried to roll away from him. Ryan shouted in pain and Brendon quickly pulled him back and draped himself all over Ryan to keep him still. "Shh, Ryan. Please. Lie still!"

Ryan was panting in Brendon ear, and when Brendon looked up, he wasn't surprised to see tears on Ryan's face. "You shouldn't be so nice to me," Ryan mumbled. He wouldn't meet Brendon's eye. "You don't know what I'm really like. I'm worthless and I'm _wrong_ and no good to anyone and you should get the fuck away from me."

Brendon knew his mouth was open. He didn't care. That wasn't _Ryan,_ those couldn't be _Ryan's_ words. Brendon narrowed his eyes. "Who told you that?" he demanded.

Ryan was still trying to look away, so Brendon put his hands on Ryan's cheeks and made Ryan look at him. "Who told you that?"

But then Brendon remembered that solitary letter from Ryan's parents, the way Ryan had turned it in his hands without opening it. And what Spencer had said after reading it. "Your parents?"

Ryan jerked a little underneath him. "My father," he admitted. His eyes were closed, and Brendon let go of Ryan's face. "He— he drinks, you know."

Brendon's parents never drank. He'd never even seen someone drunk until he got to training camp. But he knew a lot about parental pressure, knew a lot about not wanting what his parents wanted. "He shouldn't have said that to you," Brendon said.

"It's true," Ryan said.

Brendon wanted to punch someone in the face. A lot. "It's not true! How can you say that! You're not worthless, Ryan Ross, you're the farthest thing from worthless! And as for being no good to anyone— are you kidding? What about us?"

"You'd be better off without me," Ryan said flatly. Flat even for Ryan.

"We need you. And what about Spencer!" Brendon was pretty sure he had Ryan there. "You can't say he'd be better off without—"

"Spencer most of all," Ryan snapped. "He's too young. We _lied about his age,_ Brendon. He's seventeen and he shouldn't be here and he wouldn't be but it's my fault. He wanted to come with me and I didn't stop him."

Brendon was genuinely shocked. Spencer was seventeen? "Spencer Smith?" he said in disbelief. Ryan gave him a very cold look. "Well, I mean, gosh. Spencer's the boss of all of us. I guess he's doing all right."

Ryan looked pissy, in a not-getting-his-way way. "Dammit, Brendon, he got shot and he shouldn't be here at all."

"But it was Spencer's choice."

"A choice he wouldn't have made without me!"

"You don't know that. Maybe he would have run away and signed up even if he'd never met you. You don't know!"

"That's ridiculous," Ryan huffed, which Brendon took to mean he'd won that round.

Brendon lay down and tucked his head into Ryan's neck. Ryan smelled good. Well, no, Ryan smelled like the rest of them— like dirt and blood and gunpowder and unwashed boy and fear. But on Ryan it smelled good. Or else Brendon was pretty much totally and completely in love with him. One of those.

Brendon smiled against Ryan's neck. "You're gonna have trouble getting rid of me, Ryan Ross."

Ryan turned his head away. "I wouldn't— you wouldn't say that if you knew."

"Knew what?"

Ryan shook his head.

"It's okay, Ryan," Brendon said softly. "I promise. Whatever you have to say, it won't scare me or make me hate you."

"You don't know— what I think about. What I dream about. Get off me, Brendon."

"Nuh uh. You can tell me, and then I'd know."

"But I'm wrong, Brendon. You wouldn't— you should get off me, now, because when I tell you—"

Brendon was grinning. He knew this. This was either going to be brilliant or Brendon was about to get his heart broken. Still, he was a soldier in the Great War, he wasn't afraid of anything.

He whispered in Ryan's ear, "Tell me what you think about, Ryan. What you dream about."

Ryan spoke like the word was a molar being pulled out without anesthesia. "You," he whispered. "I think about—"

That was the best word Brendon had ever heard in his life. He grabbed Ryan's head and kissed him. For a moment Ryan was still struggling, then he stopped, and finally he started to kiss Brendon back. This was the greatest moment of Brendon's life, the pinnacle of his existence, kissing and being kissed by Ryan Ross.

They were kind of shy at first, but then Ryan was licking at Brendon's mouth so he opened it, and Ryan's tongue was in his mouth which should have been weird but was actually the best thing ever. So Brendon tried it out, putting his tongue in Ryan's mouth, and then Ryan did something obscene to Brendon's tongue and Brendon had to remind himself _broken leg broken leg broken leg_ and that if Ryan moved too much he'd be in agony and that was bad.

They broke apart with a slight whimper and lay panting on the ground. Brendon's hand was still tangled in Ryan's hair and Ryan's fists were wrapped in Brendon's shirt.

Ryan was _smiling._ Brendon grinned and was a little proud of himself. "I thought I was the only one," Ryan whispered. "I thought it was just me. But— you."

"And Spencer and Jon!" Brendon giggled.

"What?"

"Oh, come on." Spencer and Jon were so obvious. "You know. About Spencer and Jon."

Ryan's face was usually blank but this time his eyes were bewildered, too, so it had to be for real.

"You didn't know?" Brendon gasped. Then he started giggling again. "I can't believe it! You didn't know!"

Ryan was frowning now. "What about Spencer and Jon?"

"They're totally in love with each other! Ryan! How did you not notice that!"

"In _love?_ What? Since when?"

"Oh I dunno, you'd have to ask them, I guess. But really, Ryan. Your best friend!" Brendon pressed his face into Ryan's neck and giggled. Ryan made indignant noises and Brendon loved him so much it made his heart hurt.

"Spencer better not move to Chicago," Ryan said grumpily.

"Why would he move to Chicago?"

"For Jon."

Brendon scoffed. "They don't have farmhouses in Chicago."

"…Farmhouses? Is this some other vital piece of information I missed?"

"Uh…" Brendon hadn't meant to actually say that. He hadn't got around to mentioning the farmhouse plan to anyone else yet; he just thought about it all the time. "Well, I thought that after the war we could all move into a farmhouse together. And then we could just, you know, stay like this."

Brendon winced and shut his eyes.

"A farmhouse?" Ryan repeated.

"I was thinking like a white clapboard one? Although I guess we could paint it white, whatever it started out as. Um. If you want another color, that would be okay, too."

"Do you know anything about farming?" Ryan's voice was flatly skeptical, something only Ryan Ross could manage.

"Uh, no. Not really." Brendon was starting to think he might not get yelled at.

"Then what are we going to do with a farm? That's ridiculous."

Brendon opened his mouth to argue that they could _learn_ when he realized that Ryan was objecting to the _farm_ part, not the four of them in one house part. He shut his mouth, thought about it for a second, then admitted, "I don't really care about the farm. As long as we're all together."

"Well," Ryan said, in a forced monotone that meant he was trying to hold it together, "good. That's settled, then. The farm was stupid. You know you'd have to get up before dawn to take care of the animals? You hate getting up early."

"Yeah," Brendon said, grinning at the world, "that wouldn't work at all."

~~~~

Pete felt a lot better after going out and killing some Germans. Not that he wanted any Germans to die, particularly, but it was nice to have something to do, a clear cut duty, and to be able to fucking do it.

Navarro, Blackinton, and Suarez were conspiring over the radio when Pete and Patrick got back. "What'd I miss?" Pete asked brightly.

They jumped and saluted, and Ryland answered, "Time to move up, sir!"

"Fuck," Pete said. "We just got settled in."

"You're bleeding," Patrick said.

"Are you sure it's mine?" Pete poked at his arm. "Ow. I guess I am. Well, I'll go get patched up."

Patrick looked like he was going to start yelling, so Pete hustled on out. Back past the second lines he found Mikey, Gerard, and Frank kicking around, waiting for their ambulance to fill up.

"Hey," Pete said with a charming grin, "You guys wanna help us move up the line?"

Gerard looked skeptical.

"As soon as you finish transporting the injured, of course," Pete added hastily.

Gerard exchanged a look with Mikey and Frank, then shrugged. "I guess we won't have anything better to do."

~~~~

Brendon stuck his bayonet upright at the edge of their basement and put his helmet on it, for a sign. He was quite happy to go lay down next to Ryan again. He made Ryan drink some water and smoothed the hair off his forehead.

"What made you think of a farmhouse?" Ryan asked, after a long silence.

"Well, the thing is," Brendon said, suddenly very nervous, "I don't want to go home without you. But I can't take you home." He smiled a little sadly.

"Yeah," Ryan said softly. "I didn't want to go home in the first place, so. It's okay, Bren. It'll work. That was a good idea you had, really."

"You think Spencer and Jon will be up for it?"

"Of course. And— really? Spencer and Jon?"

"Hello Operator, why do think they've been sneaking off all the time since Spencer got back?"

"I've been a little preoccupied. Oh God, I can't believe I just agreed to live with you."

"You'll never get any peace and quiet again," Brendon agreed brightly. He took Ryan's hand and squeezed it. "You really thought you were the only one?"

"I mean I knew other people must be— must feel like that. But I didn't realize it would be like this." Ryan closed his eyes. "They never said it would be _love._ "

Brendon rubbed his face against Ryan's. "Seriously," he whispered. "Best day of my life."

Ryan turned his head to look at Brendon, and his face was so close it just dissolved into a series of shapes. "And you?" Ryan murmured. "Have you ever— I mean, how did you know?"

"I always knew I was different," Brendon shrugged. "But it went along with being different from my family in a lot of ways, you know? I don't want to stay with the Church, and honestly I think that might be worse." He huffed a laugh. "I'm here," Brendon said, "because I thought it would be better than going on Mission. I'm only here because I'm a bad Mormon."

"I came to get away from my family, too," Ryan said. "Which I guess you've figured out by now."

"It worked out okay," Brendon said.

"I guess it has," Ryan smiled. "New family and everything."

"Hello?" a voice from above called out. "Anyone still here?"

Brendon sat up quickly and answered "Yes!"

The Ways' uniforms were so covered in mud they looked black. They smiled down at Brendon and Ryan, though. "You guys again?" Gerard said.

"He needs a stretcher." Brendon pointed at Ryan.

"We'll be right back," Gerard called.

Three of them came back, although at first Brendon thought he was just seeing things. After some discussion Mikey jumped down, the stretcher was passed down, and Mikey dragged it over.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Broken ankle," Ryan answered.

"Like that's anything to write home about," Mikey said.

"I'm pretty ashamed to know him," Brendon agreed.

"Yeah, yeah. What did I do in the war? I got a broken ankle." Ryan tried to joke it off but his voice was unsteady, and his face looked pinched. The pain must be seriously kicking in now. Brendon immediately felt guilty and ran back to Ryan's side.

"It's okay," Mikey said they loaded Ryan onto the stretcher. "It's a Blighty one for sure. Congratulations. You're going home."

Ryan exchanged a guarded look with Brendon, and Brendon's heart squeezed as he realized Ryan didn't want to leave him any more than Brendon wanted Ryan to leave.

"Oh my God," Mikey said. "This war. This is getting ridiculous."

"What?" Brendon cried, but Mikey just rolled his eyes.

They carried the stretcher over to the side, where Gerard and the other man were waiting at ground level.

"This is gonna end well," Gerard remarked. Mikey and Brendon hefted the stretcher above their heads, and the other two reached down to pull it up.

It was touch and go for a moment— "Where's Gabe Saporta when you need him?" Brendon complained— but Ryan made it up to the top, if a bit tossed around.

"Sorry," the French soldier said anxiously, leaning over Ryan, "my shoulder isn't working very well right now." Because, of course, the Ways would pull someone out their ambulance to help.

The Ways carried Ryan on the stretcher back to the ambulance, and tucked him in the back. Brendon had hoped they'd be alone in the back, but of course they weren't. He wasn't expecting to see Stump and Wentz back there too, though.

"Oh, hey!" Wentz said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "It's you two. Where's the rest of you?"

As Ryan answered, Brendon whispered to Mikey, "You couldn't have got the the guys that weren't injured to help?"

Mikey looked at him over the top of his glasses, and Brendon cringed a little. "But that's _Frank,_ " Mikey said.

Brendon decided to shut up and get in the ambulance.

The ride was awkward. Ryan either fell asleep or passed out pretty much right away, and Brendon was stuck with two commissioned officers. Wentz talked a lot, but mostly to himself, or maybe Stump, who grunted occasionally to encourage or discourage Wentz's direction of babble.

"You should come check us out once we're set up, have you ever been to Chicago? Patrick will sing." Stump grunted discouragement, but this time Wentz ignored it. "Yes, you will Patrick, you have the voice of an angel. Or a god. Maybe a god. Orpheus? Was he the one that could sing?"

Stump looked like he was thinking of pushing Wentz out the back of the ambulance, and that was totally a court-martial offense, so Brendon let himself interrupt. "I didn't know you could sing, Lieutenant."

Stump looked nonplussed. "Everyone can sing," he said.

"Not like you," Wentz said fervently.

"I love to sing," Brendon said. He also loved to show off, but he didn't usually add that part out loud. "We should sing something. Since the ride is so boring."

Wentz's face lit up. "Yes! Tipperary! Go!"

It was sort of an order, since Captain Wentz had said it. Stump was glaring at Brendon but together they sang _"Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day…"_

When they hit the chorus, Brendon was impressed. "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" was not difficult to sing, but anyone could tell Stump had a gift. Wentz seemed impressed by Brendon too, though. Stump was looking at Wentz like _"See? Everyone can do this!"_ and Wentz was looking at Brendon shrewdly, like Brendon was singing dollar signs instead of notes.

 _"It's a long, long way to Tipperary  
But my heart's right there." _

"You really, really should come see us in Chicago," Wentz said.

~~~~

"I think we're lost," Gerard said. "Does anyone have a map?"

"Maps are worthless now," Frank said.

"Is that a sign?" Mikey pointed down the road.

It was a road sign. It was a road sign in German.

They looked at it in silence for a few moments.

"Oops?" Gerard said.

 

"Why'd we stop?" Pete demanded when they opened the back doors.

"Who wants to see Germany?" Gerard asked brightly.

 

They all gathered at the base of the sign post, even Ryan, who was using Brendon as a crutch. "We might be in Lorraine," Frank said doubtfully.

"Which has been German-controlled since 1870," Pete said. Frank glared at him.

"We're in _Germany!_ " Brendon shouted. He helped Ryan sit down and then jumped up and down in excitement. "Germany! _Hoch, hoch der Kaiser!_ "

All of them (except Ryan) took a moment to jump up and down. Frank spit eloquently on the ground, but joined in enthusiastically when they started singing "Deutschland Uber Alles," or at least the one line they knew.

One of the sign posts said "Kaiser Wilhelm Platz 20 km" so Brendon climbed up the post with one of Gerard's heavy grease pencils and crossed out the "Kaiser Wilhelm" part and wrote in "President Wilson," to universal acclaim.

"Well," Mikey said. "Are we gonna take pictures or what?"

They balanced the camera on the ambulance bonnet and Mikey attached the cord and was about to snap the picture when Frank cried "Wait!" and ran to get his pickelhaube from Betsy's cab. So they took a picture, and then Pete wanted a picture with the pickelhaube on, and then Brendon thought well, as long as everyone else was doing it…

Mikey finally had to complain that he only had one roll of film, and Patrick pointed out that anyone caught with a German helmet in Germany would be killed— assuming they all wouldn't be killed just for being in Germany.

Pete helped Brendon carry Ryan back into the ambulance. Gerard started singing, mostly without meaning to, _"And when they ask us, and they're certainly going to ask us…"_

 _"The reason why we didn't win the Croix de Geurre…"_ the others joined in immediately, sharing slightly guilty grins as they belted out _"Oh we'll never tell them, no, we'll never tell them. There was a front but damned if we knew where!"_

The doughboys were safely loaded back up in the ambulance and Betsy started. "So," Gerard said, starting the complicated turn. "France?"

"France," Mikey and Frank agreed.

~~~~

They were supposed to have watch duty after dinner, so Brendon, Jon, and Spencer went ahead and stood on the step. "You seem awfully cheerful," Spencer remarked. "Considering you broke Ryan."

Brendon giggled. "Ryan will be fine," he said. "Dr. Toro's putting a cast on his ankle right now, and I bet Ryan will be back getting in the way soon."

"Shouldn't he go home, with something like that?" Jon asked.

"He should," Brendon agreed. "But I think he wants to stay here and hang around the second lines with Zack."

"Who wouldn't?" Jon said reasonably.

Brendon put the field glasses to his face and kept his gaze on the field. "So, Ryan and I were talking," he said.

"Really?" Spencer said. Brendon ignored him.

"We think that after the war we should all buy a house and live in it together."

Except for the shelling and the rattling of a couple distant Maxim guns, it was quiet.

"You and Ryan thought this?" Spencer sounded surprised more than his usual sarcastic.

"It was my idea," Brendon admitted, "but Ryan thinks it's a good one. He's on board. Are you guys?"

He snuck a peek out of the corner of his eye, and saw Spencer and Jon exchange a glance.

"We haven't decided where to go yet," Brendon added. "You guys could decide that, if you want."

"We'll talk about it later," Spencer said. "When we're all together." But Jon nudged Brendon in the side in a way that meant yes. Brendon grinned at No Man's Land, watching it boil and froth in front of him.

~~~~

Austria-Hungary asked for peace.

Germany had no allies left. The war ground on, though, bombardment after bombardment, men being fed to the meat grinder.

Pete ducked in on one of Gabe's Cobra revivalist meetings. Gabe's following was small but loyal: Beckett and McCoy, Blackinton and Suarez, long-suffering Navarro, and Nurse Asher— that was new. Pete invited them all back for a drink afterwards— Gabe's religion most definitely did not preclude the consumption of alcohol.

Joe and Andy were already in the office with Patrick, so Pete threw an impromptu party. They cracked open some extra chocolate rations and some wine Pete had acquired the last time they'd been through an inhabited village.

Pete was feeling happy and effusive: his friends were here, having a good time, and the war, instead of the world, was crumbling around them.

Pete climbed on a chair and dinged a pen against his glass. "Attention please! Gentlemen— and lady— your health!"

They cheered and toasted.

"I just wanted to tell you, you're all my brothers," Pete said, looking around at all of them solemnly. "If there's ever anything you need, anything at all, come find me in Chicago." He grinned. "I promise I'll make myself easy to find."

"Does that include money?" Blackinton shouted.

"Doesn't it always?" Pete shouted back, jumping down. He nearly landed on Patrick. He was sorry he'd missed, so he leaned all over Patrick to make up for it.

"But not you," he whispered to Patrick. "My feelings toward you aren't very brotherly at all, I'm afraid."

Patrick turned a lovely shade of pale pink. "Are you drunk?" he hissed.

Pete leaned his forehead against Patrick's shoulder. "No, not at all, Patrick Stumpster, Tricky-Rickster. Why would I be drunk?"

"I think we'd better kick these people out and get you to bed," Patrick muttered.

"What an excellent idea," Pete murmured, trying to slide his arms around Patrick but not quite managing because Patrick kept twisting away. "Patrick Stump, soul of my soul."

 _"Soul of your soul?"_ Patrick grumbled. "What does that even mean? Get off, sir."

He poured Pete into a chair— Pete was all right with staying there— and somehow herded everyone else out the door. Pete thought he heard Andy asking if Patrick needed any help, but missed Patrick's response. The next thing Pete was aware of, Patrick was back at Pete's side, where he belonged, and grabbing Pete, which was nice.

"Heeeey," Pete said. "Handsy." He wrapped an arm around Patrick's neck and dragged Patrick's head down to his so he could kiss Patrick's cheek.

"What are you doing!" Patrick pulled away. "You need to go to bed, Captain."

"Now that's a good idea, Trick. We should go to bed and all."

This time Pete let Patrick pull him up. He slumped against Patrick and pressed his face into Patrick's neck. "I love you," he mumbled, but even Pete couldn't understand himself. Patrick walked Pete to his bunk and slung him into it.

Pete groaned as he stretched out. Lying down felt wonderful. "You should lie down too, Patrick," he said, face half-smushed into the pillow. "You should. It's nice. An' I won't try anything. Okay, that's a lie, I will molest you if you lie down." He looked up at Patrick through his eyelashes. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't lie down."

Patrick looked very still and very blank. Pete didn't like it. "I don't know what you're talking about," Patrick said. "You're very drunk. Goodni—"

"Paaatrick," Pete interrupted. "Patrick, why not? What's so bad? I only bite where you want me to." He laughed at his own joke.

"I'm going to leave now," Patrick said.

Pete groaned in frustration, and Patrick didn't move. "Why don't you love me, Patrick? You have to love me, you have to. If you don't love me then who will?"

"I'm sure your mother loves you," Patrick said.

Pete waved this away. "Doesn't count. Parents have to love you, no matter what they got. My mother loves me. Your mother loves you. I should write to her. No, I should write to your father! I can ask for your hand in marriage." He giggled.

"Shut up," Patrick said sharply. Pete stopped giggling and tried to make his eyes focus. Patrick looked like he was arguing with himself. Pete knew the feeling well. "Stop joking about this," Patrick said, voice in his control again. "It's not funny and it's not appropriate and it's not... It's not real."

Pete sat up. The room spun around him. "Of course it's real!" he insisted. "I need to lay down again."

Patrick sighed. "Go to bed, Pete, sleep it off. You won't even remember this in the morning. Thank God." Patrick turned the lamp down and went to the doorway. "I wish you'd be serious once in a while."

"I am serious," Pete insisted. The darkness was welcoming, beckoning. "I am always serious about you, Patrick, you're the one thing I'm serious about. You're the only thing worth being serious about." He feel asleep without knowing if Patrick was still in the room to hear it.

~~~~

"Post war plans," Bob said. "Go."

It was dark up in their attic but only on the ground. Silver light was illuminating the architecture above, the white plaster and dark wood that were a hundred years old if they were a day. The shelling was distant enough to sound like fireworks instead of bombs.

"I just want to go home," Ray said. "See my wife again."

"Work on having kids?" Bob said slyly.

"Shut up," Ray said, and they could tell he was blushing from his voice. They laughed at him.

"Brian Schechter's been talking to me about the Red Cross," Bob said. "As, like, a permanent thing. I'm giving it some thought."

Gerard hummed. He was lying with his head on Frank's chest, pretending he wasn't, even though Ray and Bob must know by now.

"I have to go home and see my family," Frank said. The vibrations tickled Gerard's cheek. "For a little while. After that, who knows?" He tapped a finger against Gerard's cheek.

"Maybe America?" Bob said. He sounded like he was laughing at them.

"Maybe so." Frank also sounded on the verge of laughter.

Gerard huffed. They were the worst ever at keeping secrets. He started thinking about how lucky they were that all their friends apparently didn't care, that no one turned them into the police, despite how careless they were. He wondered if it had something to do with the war, that everyone was having such a hard time no one begrudged anyone else happiness, whatever form it might take. When he drifted back to attention, Mikey was talking.

"--with Alicia," Mikey said. "Maybe college."

Gerard nodded, then blinked. "Wait, who's Alicia?"

" _Nurse Simmons,_ Gee," Mikey said, as if Gerard was an idiot for not knowing that.

"When did you find out her first name?" Gerard asked in surprise. The others laughed at him, but Mikey just sighed.

Frank tugged at Gerard's hair and whispered, "That really wasn't the most important part, Gerard."

~~~~

"What's wrong, Orderly Navarro?" William sat down and slung an arm over Nate's shoulders. "You should look happier, not sadder. Didn't you hear the war's almost over?"

"I don't know what we're going to do about Saporta after the war," Nate murmured. "It's one thing here, where we can all keep an eye on him. But after the war… We can't turn him loose on the general public."

William felt something cold and hard drop through his chest into his stomach. He wrapped his arms around himself. "He's not dangerous."

"He kind of is," Nate sighed. "To himself."

"Nurse Asher likes him."

"There is that," Nate said thoughtfully.

"I think he'll be all right eventually," William said. "It's just shell shock, right? So it should go away after the war."

"I hope so," Nate said. "Don't get me wrong, I love Gabe, but he probably needs professional help, at least at first."

William lit up. "That's all right then! My, er, friend gave him a card for a shrink in London. I don't remember the name, but Gabe can go there and get better."

Nate, though, did not seem to realize William had solved the problem. "I'll look for the card," he said, "but I haven't seen it around. And we'll have to talk Gabe into going, too."

William waved that away. "He'll do anything Nurse Asher tells him. We just need to find the card."

~~~~

It seemed like everyone had already signed Ryan's cast. Brendon was a bit put out all the good spots were taken. Gerard Way had even drawn a cartoon of them all in Germany in front of the sign post.

Ryan seemed really pleased, and he looked good for someone in the hospital. His color was back and he looked rested and he wasn't shaking.

"They might not get around to sending me back any time soon," Ryan said. "Since my injury's not life-threatening and I can still do paperwork. I'm trying to get back in our Company as an orderly or something. I could do all Pete's paperwork."

"You can't run out of the way of a shell," Spencer frowned.

"No one can run out of the way of a shell," Ryan pointed out.

Brendon settled for writing "Hi! From Brendon" on Ryan's foot so Ryan would see it when he looked down.

Ryan and Spencer and Jon continued talking, but Brendon had trouble following the conversation. He wanted to be alone with Ryan, to make sure that everything that had passed between them in the open basement was still true and Ryan remembered it.

"So," Spencer said, suddenly loud, "Brendon says we're all going to move in together after the war." Brendon started and peeked at Ryan. Ryan looked a little startled, too.

"Don't you think it's a good idea?" he said. Ryan and Spencer stared at each other for a long time.

Then Spencer smiled, and he almost looked proud of Ryan. "I think it's going to be brilliant or a disaster. Probably both."

"In other words," Jon said, "we're all for it!"

~~~~

"Gabe," William said, "you remember that card Captain Prior gave you? For that doctor?"

"Vaguely," Gabe replied. He'd dragged his chair outside in the second line trench and had his feet propped on the step.

"Do you know where it is? Can I see it?"

Gabe frowned and began emptying his pockets. There was a truly impressive amount of crap in his pockets. William and Gabe looked at every bit of paper, but nothing looked like the address of a psychiatrist in London.

"I don't know where it went," Gabe shrugged. "Sorry, Billy-boy."

 

William borrowed Pete's field telephone. He sat on it for hours, through multiple bad connections, as he got bounced around from the AEF to the BEF and all over France and Belgium. Finally, he reached a Lieutenant who seemed to know who he was talking about.

"Billy Prior? Was on medical leave last year?"

"Sure," William shouted down the lines. "Can I get a message through to him?"

"Awfully sorry old chap, but he bought it last week."

"Oh."

"Crossing a canal or something. Whole company lost."

William thanked the Lieutenant and rang off. So that was that. Gabe would have to take his chances with doctors in the US.

~~~~

Pete was up late, or early, the morning of November 7, listening to the radio, and heard the broadcast from the Eiffel Tower. He ran to wake Patrick, dragging him half-dressed and less than half-awake to hear it for himself.

At morning stand-to, as soon as all his men were arrayed in rows, Pete climbed up on the box he kept for these occasions and announced the German government was in France to discuss armistice terms.

There was a sort of stunned silence. "Really?" Joe asked.

Pete grinned. "Really. Really really really."

He led the _hip-hip-hoorays!_ until the morning hate started.

 

"It seems pointless now, doesn't it?" he whispered to Frank later that day. The Ways were carrying out some poor kid who'd lost an arm to a shell, and Pete and Frank were trailing along behind.

"I heard the civilians are already celebrating," Frank said. "Bastards."

"Jumping the gun a bit," Pete agreed. "I mean, I can see they need to keep the pressure on in case the Germans change their minds, or to make them agree faster or whatever it is they're doing, but—"

"It's not the first time an armistice has been suggested," Gerard called over his shoulder.

"But it's the first time real terms have been proposed," Pete pointed out. He watched them load the pale kid into the ambulance. "But we're exactly the same as a box of shells or round of ammunition, aren't we? Just something to be thrown at the Jerries until they give in."

Frank patted his shoulder. "Now you're getting it." He jumped in the ambulance. "Crank Betsy for us, would you?"

~~~~

They took Ryan home and Zack clucked at him. The waiting was driving them all crazy. A new kind of waiting, a new kind of crazy. "Why is it taking so long?" Brendon complained. "What's there to discuss?"

"The Kaiser is a very proud man," Zack said. "And it is him they have to convince of it, not the people. It is much harder, too, to convince one man than many."

Brendon propped his chin in his hand. He watched Spencer and Jon get Ryan settled in. "That doesn't seem right."

"So it goes."

 

When the others went out to make lunch, Brendon crawled over to Ryan. "How are you feeling?"

"Kind of useless," Ryan admitted.

"No pain?"

Ryan shrugged.

Brendon stuck his legs out in front of him, then pulled them in underneath. He redistributed his weight.

"Brendon," Ryan said. "What is it?"

Brendon fiddled with a bandage on his hand. "You didn't forget, right? What we talked about."

"Of course not."

"Okay, good, because you hadn't said anything else and I was kind of worried," Brendon let it all out in a rush.

"What else was there to say?" Ryan murmured. He touched Brendon's hand. Brendon turned to look at him and Ryan was _right there._ "And we haven't been alone since," Ryan said.

"Right. I know."

"Well. We're alone now."

"Oh," Brendon blinked. "Right." He hesitated another few seconds though, before leaning in and putting his mouth against Ryan's again.

This kiss was even better, because they knew how they fit together now, and Ryan wasn't in pain. They startled apart at the sound of footsteps on the duckboards outside. Spencer's level gaze traveled between them, and he seemed to be looking at the lack of space between them, but he didn't say anything and just gave them their food.

~~~~

Gerard had gone to beg, borrow, or steal a new fan belt for Betsy from VAD headquarters behind the BEF lines. He'd managed to scrounge one and was in a pretty good mood.

On the way back, Gerard ran into a Sikh regiment down from Ypres he knew from last year, so he paused for a cup of tea and a chat. It was well worth it, because he rushed back to Frank and Mikey and cried "Guess what I just heard? The Kaiser's been stopped on the Dutch border."

"Wilhelm II?"

"No, the _other_ Kaiser. Of course Wilhelm! He abdicated this morning and was trying to sneak out of Germany, in civvies and everything! He had to produce his papers at the border!"

Frank did what Gerard had hoped he would, and laughed. _Hoch der Kaiser,_ indeed.

"I saw a man from my old regiment today," Frank said after a moment. "He said a Boche prisoner told him a German ship mutinied, killed their captain, and raised a red flag. And that general strikes in Berlin were threatened unless the Kaiser abdicated."

Gerard stretched out on the ground. "So Germany's a republic now. I think it's Marx and Lenin defeating Germany for us."

"Whatever gets the job done," Mikey said, stretching out his legs over Gerard's.

 

Frank wrapped his fingers in strands of Gerard's hair. "Looking for lice," he said.

"Shut up," Gerard said, "like you're any—"

Frank pulled Gerard's head down to kiss him. "If the bloody Boche would get a move on and sign their armistice, we could all be home by Christmas, and then no more lice."

"Thank God," Gerard muttered before kissing Frank again. "Whose home? Yours or mine?"

"Same thing," Frank said. Kiss. "Oh. Corsica's closer."

"'S a fair point," Gerard agreed. He was pretty agreeable in general right now. He slid a leg between Frank's and Frank's breath hitched.

Really, it was a big thing to know, that Frank would be there in the morning and the day after that and the day after that, because the only other person Gerard had ever been able to count on like that was Mikey. It was big and new and kind of humbling, too, knowing that someone loved him who wasn't bound to him by blood. Bound by something else, though, because Gerard had been able to go into hell after Frank because he'd known Frank would do the same for him.

~~~~

Pete didn't sleep. He stayed up, listening to radio transmissions all night. They were supposed to attack tomorrow morning at 10:30 AM, but the signing of the armistice was imminent.

"What's taking them so long?" he complained to Patrick, who of course didn't know any more than Pete.

"I can't send them over the top again, Patrick. Why can't we be done?" Pete's eyes were burning. It was 2 PM but dark inside their dugout.

Patrick sat on the edge of Pete's bed and rubbed Pete's back. "Go to sleep, sir. Take a nap. I'll listen to the radio and get the telephone."

"You'll wake me if there's any—"

"Of course."

Pete's mind, which had been whirring all night, was winding down under the influence of Patrick. Patrick touching him was nice. Patrick touching him in the dark on a bed was very nice.

"When we start our cabaret…" Pete mumbled.

"Oh, it's a cabaret now?" Patrick sounded amused. Not mean, though, or skeptical.

"Should we live above it," Pete asked, "or in a different building?"

Patrick snorted. "Why don't we wait until we see the building first, sir?"

Pete meant to tell Patrick that he had the best ideas, and also that Patrick should call him Pete, but he tumbled off into sleep first.

~~~~

At 5 AM, a group of men in a traincar in Compiègne put their names on large pieces of paper. By 6:30 AM, most every man and woman on the Western Front knew about it.

There was something different in the air that day right way. When Brendon first stepped out of the dugout, Lt. Stump shouted "Good morning!" to him. _Shouted._ Confused, Brendon waved back.

"Good morning!" came shouted across No Man's Land. Brendon carefully poked his head above the sandbags.

"Good morning!" he shouted back.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" someone shouted back.

"Sure!" Brendon answered.

He had to stand-to then. Everyone was buzzing with excitement as they stood at attention, and Captain Wentz came and stood on his box in front of them.

"This morning, at 5 AM," he shouted, "Allied representatives met representatives of the German government, who signed their unconditional surrender."

There was a second of silence, either because it had to seep in or simply because everyone was drawing a deep breath.

They all shouted, wordless, and their cheer was echoed up and down the lines, and answered from the other side.

"It will be effective," Captain Wentz continued, "at 11 AM today." He held up his arms in victory. "Everyone should feel free to go back to bed," Wentz added as he jumped off his box.

Ryan looked shaky. "What if it doesn't work?"

Spencer rolled his eyes and hugged Ryan tightly. "It'll work, Ryan. It will stick."

~~~~

The field telephone rang at 9:00 AM. Patrick answered it, shrugged, and passed it to Pete. It was Colonel Hoppus. "See, the thing is," he said, his voice fuzzy and far away over the bad wire, "I'm supposed to tell you the attack is back on. Over the top at 10:30 ack-emma."

Pete took the 'phone away from his ear, stared at it, then put it back. "What?"

"I know." Voice inflection was lost over the bad connection and Hoppus's voice just sounded flat. "I'm sorry. I don't know why. Those are the orders. 10:30." He might have said something else before ringing off, but the buzzing in Pete's ears was too loud.

He hung up the ear piece and stared at it. The field phone was supposed to be his darling, and it had betrayed him.

"Sir?" Patrick asked. "What is it?"

"Pinch me," Pete said.

"What?"

"Pinch me. Or punch me. Whatever. I think I must be having a dream." Pete sat down, rather abruptly. This was exactly the kind of bullshit dream he'd have, too. Although he did feel much better knowing it was a dream.

"You're not asleep," Patrick said.

"Yes I am," Pete said. "Of course I am. You let me doze off; now you have to wake me back up."

"This isn't a dream, sir, you're not asleep, and frankly this is—"

Pete pinched himself, as hard as he could, and when that didn't work, Pete rammed his shin into the table leg. "Motherfucker!"

"Pete!" Patrick shouted. "Stop it! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Pete blinked up at Patrick. "You called me Pete," he said.

Patrick flushed. "I'm very sorry, sir, it will never happen again, I don't know what came over me and the breach of protocol—"

"Fuck that," Pete smiled, but he didn't think he carried it off well, because Patrick looked even more alarmed. "You can call me Pete all you want, Trickster."

Patrick sighed.

"Fuck protocol," Pete said, and then "Oh, yeah. Fuck protocol."

"What was that phone call about, sir?" Patrick said.

Pete almost told him, but at the last second a better, safer idea occurred to him, and he shut his mouth. Pete cleared his throat, and said "I don't know. The line wasn't clear enough to make any sense."

Patrick looked skeptical, but Pete barely noticed. This was a good plan. He'd get court-martialed, but who cared what happened to him. Everyone else would be safe, both this morning and in any subsequent investigations. They couldn't disobey orders they'd never received.

 

Pete refused to answer Patrick's questions, and refused to talk to Joe and Andy, when Patrick brought them in. He watched the clock ticking down, holding his watch in his hands. He felt like he was going to be sick all over the place.

At quarter to ten, it occurred to him that the Germans might have received the same orders.

"Oh shit." He stood up and stared to pace. Patrick tried to get in his way but Pete, for the first time, ignored him. "I need— I have to—" he had to talk to someone who wasn't taking orders from him.

"I'll be back," Pete said, and rushed out of the dugout.

 

For another blissful moment it was all going right. There was Betsy, sitting by the road, and Mikey and Gerard and Frank were in front of it, watching water heat on a fire with hopeful expressions.

"Hello!" they all waved cheerfully at him. Pete stumbled up and collapsed on the freezing ground. He was next to the fire, but he couldn't feel any heat off it.

"Are you all right?" Gerard asked, leaning over.

Pete shook his head, gasped to get his breath back, and said "We've received orders to go over the top at 10:30."

For a moment Pete wondered what he'd actually been speaking, because from their faces it wasn't English.

"The— the armistice was signed this morning," Gerard said, looking at Mikey and Frank uncertainly. "We heard—"

"It doesn't take effect until 11," Pete said.

"But— it's fini kaput," Mikey said.

Pete shook his head. "I got a call. At 9 AM. I haven't told anyone yet."

"Because you're not going over the top," Frank said. He was looking at Pete curiously, but with approval, Pete thought.

"I don't want any one to be court-martialed but me," Pete said.

Mikey frowned and looked like he was thinking of saying something, but not surprisingly Gerard spoke first.

"So they're sending out another attack for… half an hour?"

"The thing is," Pete remembered his urgency, "the thing is, I'm worried now the Germans are going to get orders to attack, too. And all my men think the war is fucking over and how do I tell them without giving away the orders I'm supposed to give them?"

"Talk to the Alleymen," Gerard said, as if this was obvious.

"What?"

Gerard rolled his eyes. "Talk to the Germans. Agree not to attack each other. It wouldn't be the first unofficial truce."

Pete blinked at all of them. "How?"

Frank shrugged. "Send a shell."

"Shell them? I don't really think—"

"A message shell." Frank muttered something under his breath that sounded like _idiot._ "Haven't you figured out message shells yet?"

 

Pete had to very nearly bodily throw that Cash kid out of the battery, but once he did, Frank got right to work. He carefully unscrewed a shell and dumped out all the gunpowder. "Now a note," he said.

Pete patted his pockets to no avail. Gerard produced a sheet of thick paper and a pencil. Pete crouched down to write but hesitated when he realized "I don't speak German!"

Frank sighed like Pete's stupidity was seriously hampering his enjoyment of life. "Someone over there will speak English. The Boche all speak English, practically."

Pete started writing. "That's not how you spell 'colleague'," Gerard said, reading over Pete's shoulder.

 _My esteemed ~~colleage-~~ colleague- _

_We received orders to go over the top at 10:30 this morning and have no desire to do so. We are ready for peace. If you are also we can meet on the field at 11 am and not a moment sooner as friends not enemies._

 _Regards,  
Capt. Pete Wentz, AEF _

"They can return shell message, right?" Pete asked.

"Of course," Frank snorted. "They're Old Sweats over there." He snatched the letter out of Pete's hands and rolled it up. He put it in the shell and stuck the lid back on. He hammered on the metal a little, to make sure the cap didn't fly off when the shell flew.

"Here," he gave the closed shell back to Pete. "I'm not an artilleryman."

So they had to call Cash back after all. He came suspiciously quick when Pete shouted. "Here," he handed the shell to the kid. "Aim this for wherever you think German HQ over there is."

Cash looked doubtful but shrugged and lined the shot up. They plugged their ears when he fired and watched anxiously as the shell sailed over No Man's Land. It landed with a reassuring lack of boom.

"I think it was a dud," Cash said, eying the pile of gunpowder on the ground. Frank started scuffing it into the dirt.

 

They went back to Betsy so they could finish making the coffee. Pete was too worked up to take any. It was 10:15 when a lone small shell came sailing back towards their artillery.

Pete, followed by the Ways and Frank, ran back up and found the unexploded shell. It was too hot to touch but Pete couldn't wait and wrapped his hands in some spare socks. He cracked the shell apart. There was his letter, with a reply in black ink on the bottom.

 _Agreed. Salutations and God Bless._

Pete felt giddy as he sank down and couldn't help giggling a little in relief. Above him, the letter was being passed around.

"He's got much better penmanship than you," Mikey said. Pete laughed and laughed.

 

At 10:30, Pete walked back into his dugout, where Patrick was shouting at Joe and Andy. "WHY has no one seen— Captain!"

Pete grinned. "Patrick! Joe! Andy!"

The guns started up then, everywhere but their section.

"What the fuck!" Andy shouted.

Pete laughed, even though it wasn't funny at all. "Oops," he shouted. "I guess that's what that 'phone call was about!"

Patrick shook him. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Pete leaned over to talk directly into Patrick's ear. "What I had to." Then he pulled back a bit and patted Patrick on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, dear. I've taken care of everything."

He saw Joe and Andy exchange alarmed glances. Pete went over to them and hugged them in turn. "Half an hour of guns, then our ears will ring with silence. It's okay, I took care of it."

"What if the Jerries attack?" Joe asked.

"I took care of it!"

Joe and Andy didn't seem to believe him, and left to go watch No Man's Land.

Pete leaned against Patrick. "I did take care of it," he said. "It's—"

Ross, Beckett, and Saporta burst through the door. "What's going on?" Ryan demanded.

"Why is there _fighting?_ " William wailed.

"We're not fighting," Pete said calmly. "There was a little mix-up in the orders."

"Why is everyone else fighting?" Gabe asked, his expression surprisingly shrewd.

"They got their orders," Pete said calmly. "And you didn't. Stop worrying about it. Go back to waiting for 11 AM."

"The peace is still on?" William asked.

"The peace is still on," Pete confirmed. "They just forgot to negotiate a cease-fire with it, I guess."

"We're not attacking," Ryan said, or maybe asked. His monotone was in full effect today.

"We're not attacking, and we're not being attacked. Go have some coffee with your boys."

~~~~

For half an hour the morning of November 11, 1918, there was a Jericho bombardment almost everywhere along the lines. Right before 11 AM, there was a pause, as if the whole world was holding its breath, listening for something. In some small villages, eager priests starting ringing their church bells slightly before 11 AM, and so the guns didn't all go silent at quite the exact same moment, but no one cared to argue.

At 11 AM, or nearly, the bells rang, and the guns stopped.

At 11 AM on the front, it was absolutely silent, as if all sound had been sucked out of the world. It was almost hard to breath, the silence was so strong. It didn't stay that way for long, though.

Pete wrapped himself around Patrick, and Patrick leaned into him. They were standing in the doorway of their dugout, squinting in the sun.

Brendon reached for Ryan first, squeezed his hand, and then dragged them both into Jon and Spencer, ending up in a pile of warm, crying, alive boys (and one cat).

William was looking out over No Man's Land, and he didn't turn around when his boys started shouting and embracing behind him, but he did grin and wipe the tears off his face. They pulled him into their celebration anyway.

Travis, who after all was not part of Pete's company, paused on the rim of the shell crater and took a moment to look around. Then he bent again and resumed dragging Disashi's body back to the trenches.

Gabe jumped into No Man's Land, standing on the edge of the trench with arms raised, not in victory, but in a sort of wide embrace. This time, Nate didn't even have to try to stop him.

At the remains of CCS 33, Ray, standing with most of the nurses, closed his eyes and slumped to the ground. For the first time in nearly two years, something in him relaxed.

Bob, standing over an operating table, threw down his forceps. It had nothing to do with the bells, but with the soldier he'd been picking shrapnel out of who had just died on the table.

Gerard put an arm around Mikey, and an arm around Frank. They huddled together for a long moment without speaking before Gerard and Mikey picked up their stretcher again.

The Germans had either not received any orders about non-fraternization or they were done taking orders. They climbed out of their trenches singing "Tipperary" and shedding equipment. They threw their guns toward the Allied lines and waved whatever whitish scrap of fabric they could find. The Allied enlisted men felt they were done with orders, too, and went out to say hello.

Ryan's unit walked Zack back to his lines, Ryan struggling along on his crutches. "You might as well go home," Ryan said. "No point in coming with us anymore." Brendon tried not to cry, and failed completely.

Pete shook hands with the German commanders. Gerard and Mikey had no trouble finding Maja and Fritz again, and Frank eagerly exchanged wine for Turkish cigarettes if he could get them. Sausages were swapped for the promise of a delivery of a letter to relatives in America. It lasted for a couple hours of trading war stories and food, before a runner showed up announcing Command was driving by and everyone had better be in their own trench when they did. This was an Armistice, not a peace. That would come later.

That night, everyone set off all their Very lights and unexploded ordinance, sending them harmless up into the sky, making fireworks from bombs. They wouldn't need them anymore; the guns were quiet.

~~~~

EPILOGUE 

_Three months after_

"LOS ANGELES!" Brendon shouted, throwing his arms wide as he stepped off the train.

"Stop blocking the way, Urie!" Spencer shoved him aside by swinging a suitcase into Brendon's back.

Jon and Ryan followed Spencer off the train and the four them stood blinking in the shaded light of the LA station.

"There's a lot more people here than I thought there would be," Ryan said.

"You'll get used to it," Jon said.

"Who has the address?" Spencer asked.

"I do!" Brendon couldn't help jumping up and down a little.

"I mean the address of the hotel."

"That's me," Ryan fished in his pocket for his notebook and spent a while paging through it.

If Brendon had gotten his way, they would have bought the house sight unseen, but cooler heads— mostly Spencer's— had prevailed.

They took a taxi to the hotel, washed up, and went off to find the house.

The back door was unlocked, like the estate agent had said it would be, so they let themselves in. The kitchen was big and sunny, with a red tile floor and white washed walls, like the rest of the house.

They looked at the hallways and the divided parlor and the dining room, which was small, and they looked upstairs. Three bedrooms, one bathroom. Spencer made them all gather in the upstairs hallway after they'd had time to look around.

"Well," Spencer said, because Ryan was pretty much content to stand in the back with Brendon and let Spencer be the boss now (Brendon was okay with this, too). "What do we think?"

"It's sunny," Jon said thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Ryan said, tipping his head back against the wall. "As long as it's not raining all the time."

Spencer frowned at them. "That's why we're in LA," he said. "What about this house in particular?"

"I don't have any objections," Brendon offered.

"That's good enough for me," Jon smiled.

Spencer rolled his eyes at them but he was totally smiling. "So we're all agreed and we'll go see the estate agent tomorrow?"

"That's what it sounds like," Ryan said, rolling his eyes so only Brendon could see.

Brendon bit his lip so he wouldn't laugh and squeezed Ryan's hand.

They shuffled toward the stairs as a group. Ryan stopped and stared down the stairs, frowning and nervously fiddling with his cane. "What will we tell the neighbors?" he asked. "When they ask who we are and what we're doing?"

Brendon answered. "There's only one thing they need to know. We were soldiers in the Great War."

~~~~

 _Four months after_

"We can usually get gin or rum," the man, who'd only given his name as "Jimmy" said. "Sometimes both, but usually one or t'other."

"And I take it you have an irregular delivery schedule?"

"Of course. We're not amateurs."

Pete grinned. Running a speakeasy was going to be even more fun than a regular cabaret would have been. He shook hands and had his new waitress, Cassadee, show the rumrunners out. He peeked out the door to make sure his bouncer, Charlie, was following them at a discreet distance to make sure the rumrunners didn't give Cass any trouble.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Patrick muttered from the corner he'd been tucked into throughout the meeting. Patrick had been saying the same thing for weeks.

"There's no other way, Mr. Stump," Pete said, tidying up the papers and ledgers he kept on his desk to look busy and important. "People will have their liquor, and they'll pay us a lot of money to give it to them."

"You're in enough trouble already," Patrick grumped.

Pete laughed. "I avoided a dishonorable discharge, didn't I? And there are worse people to owe favors to than Mark Hoppus." Colonel Hoppus had shown up to testify at Pete's court-martial in person. There was no way to prove Pete had ever heard the attack orders on Armistice Day. It hadn't been an outright disgrace, but it was the end of Pete's military career. Pete had been done with it, anyway.

"Like rumrunners," Patrick muttered.

Pete got up and crossed the room. He cupped his hands around Patrick's face and tilted it up to face him. "What are you worried about, darling? Relax! We're going to make a load of cash and live like kings. The kings of Chicago!"

"I'm worried about you," Patrick said. "For you. And I'm worried about—"

Pete grinned, happiness like a burst of light in his chest. "Don't worry about me, Patty-trick, I've got you looking after me, haven't I? What you should be worried about is it's opening night and all we've got is wine and beer and moonshine."

Pete leaned down and kissed Patrick on the mouth. Patrick inhaled sharply and froze. He didn't kiss back, exactly, but he didn't move away. When Pete pulled away, Patrick sighed and said, "Pete."

"I know." Pete tipped the brim of Patrick's hat up and pressed a kiss to Patrick's forehead. "I can't help it."

"I do love you," Patrick said. "You know that. I just… I don't know. I don't know if I can do that."

"There's only one way to find out," Pete pointed out, bouncing his eyebrows. His smile was much more tender than he really meant it to be.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I just.. this is not how it's supposed to be."

"I'm pretty sure the whole world isn't supposed to be like this," Pete said. "But here we are." He let go of Patrick and stepped back. "I can behave myself for the rest of the night if you want me to, Patrick. But I'm used to getting my way eventually."

"I know," Patrick sighed. He looked up at Pete with a rueful smile. "That's what worries me."

Pete looked at Patrick, and Patrick looked back. There was a glimmer of… something in Patrick's eyes. Pete wanted to draw it out, make it solid, make it real, make it undeniable, but he was afraid of making it disappear past recovery. _Patience,_ he reminded himself. Patience led to progress led to victory. One last battle and the war was won, but it wasn't Pete's battle to fight.

Andy banged on the door. "Hurry it up, assholes," he shouted. "They're getting restless."

"Can you believe that?" Pete shouted. "Two months out of the army, and that's how they treat their superior officer. Kids these days!"

He pulled Patrick to his feet and they left the office together, heading for the stage. Joe and Andy, who formed the house band along with Patrick, were up there and waiting.

Pete walked up and adjusted the microphone. The crowd was small but solid, and he had every confidence it would get bigger. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to Angels & Kings. My name is Pete Wentz. I want you to remember both those names, because you're going to be hearing them a lot."

Pete licked his lips. The audience was attentive. "I'd like to introduce you to our house band. Mr. Hurley, Mr. Trohman, and this—" he dragged Patrick next to him, in front of the microphone. "This is Patrick Martin Stump," Pete shouted. "He makes the sun rise."

Patrick tugged on the bill of his cap until it covered his eyes. "I really don't," he said.

The audience laughed, and clapped. The rush Pete felt wasn't anything like the rush of the front lines. It was much better.

~~~~

 _Five months after_

William and Travis climbed the big stone staircase together. William kept his eyes on the steps beneath his feet. He hated this place, hated looking at it. Travis pulled open one of the heavy front doors and William thanked him with a quick smile. Inside it was dark and smelled sort of musty and damp, as it always did, regardless of the season.

He crossed the empty entrance hall as quickly as he could and went through the inner doors. William was focused on the stairs at the other end of the reception room when a woman's nasal voice interrupted him, echoing through the otherwise silent room.

"Excuse me. You can't go in here."

William turned around but of course she wasn't talking to him. "He's with me," William snapped.

"Oh," the nurse said, as if it hadn't been fucking obvious since they came in together.

William waited for Travis to catch up to him and they continued towards the stairs. William thought about doing something quite nasty to the nurse because now he was too embarrassed to look at Travis. Next to him Travie was quiet and his head was down, and something heavy and unpleasant was squirming around William's stomach. As if these visits weren't hard enough.

They climbed the steep staircase in uncomfortable silence, but at the top Travis shoved into William a little bit so William shoved back and smiled. They needed to feel better before this next bit.

The hallways were dark, as always, and smelled weird, also as always. They could hear someone babbling loudly in one of the rooms. They couldn't make out the words, which probably wouldn't make sense anyway, but the rise and fall of the cadence was something that, though unwelcome, had become familiar. William curled in closer to Travis. Just being in this place would drive you mad.

They found the right common room at last and slipped inside. The nurse looked up when they came in, but this one recognized them. She jerked her head toward the curtained windows and went back to the paper she was reading. They picked their way through the common room, trying not to look at anything too closely.

Gabe was sitting in an ugly, threadbare green chair, staring out the window via the crack in the curtains. William looked at Travis anxiously so Travis cleared his throat and called Gabe's name gently.

When Gabe didn't respond, Travis slowly lowered his hand to Gabe's shoulder, pressing down just a little.

William moved to try and get in Gabe's line of sight. "It's Bill," he said, voice soft and as appealing as he could make it. "Bill and Travie."

Gabe slowly turned his head and blinked at William, then turned his head a bit more to blink at Travis, who smiled encouragingly. "How you doing there, Gabriel?"

A smile stuttered to life on Gabe's face, becoming a bit more sure of itself at it went. William couldn't resist exchanging a grin with Travis. This looked like it might be a good day.

They asked him how he'd been, but Gabe didn't seem to want to answer, so they told him what they'd been up to instead, told him about going to Pete and Patrick's and the wild time they'd had in Chicago. Gabe almost laughed, once.

"Have you— and Victoria?" Gabe asked. "Do you remember the last time she was here?"

William knew he was frozen with his mouth open and looked at Travis for help.

Travis patted Gabe's arm. "She's really busy right now, but she sends her love."

 

Outside the wind had picked up and William tugged his coat tightly around him, and when that didn't do much, he curled into Travis, hoping he'd block the wind. Travis elbowed him but didn't actually make him get off.

"We're gonna have to tell him about Nurse Asher some time," Travis said, gloomy.

"Can't we just tell him she… I don't know, found someone else?"

Travis raised his eyebrow at William, and William hunched down and made a guilty face at the ground. "That's not nice, not to Gabe and not to Nurse Asher."

"I don't know what he's going to do when he finds out," William muttered.

"Probably blink," Travis said, and his tone was so bitter William stumbled in surprise.

William and Travis weren't Gabe's next of kin so the staff wouldn't discuss Gabe's treatment with them. They knew he was on medicine of some kind, and that was supposedly what made him so out of it. William suspected they'd done something else, too, although he didn't like to think about it because there wasn't any way to make it right again. He never let the word pass his lips but it lurked around his tongue, filling up his mouth with its round sounds and making speech clumsy and hard.

"It's not fair," William muttered.

"Son," Travis said, slinging an arm over William's shoulders, "sweet fuck all is fair."

William nodded; what else could he do? It wasn't fair that Gabe had ended up here and gotten worse when there wasn't that much wrong with him in the first place, it wasn't fair that people tried to make Travis go in the back entrance because of who he was, and it wasn't fair that Nurse Asher had died of influenza three months ago because she'd been too good of a nurse to leave her patients.

Well, it was far too late to help Victoria, William couldn't really help Travis other than by doing what he already did, but Gabe was still here and it was still making him worse.

"We should get Gabe out," William said, surprising himself.

"How?"

"Just—" William flopped his hand in the air— "just steal him. We'll say we're taking him out for a walk and just not come back. Fuck them in there, anyway."

Travis stopped walking and stared at William, hard. "Do you know what you're saying? That's kidnapping, you know."

Without looking away from Travis, William pointed at the ugly building behind them. "I know that place is killing him. He couldn't be any worse with us, right?"

Travis stared at William intensely for another moment, then he started to smile. "Fuck, you're crazy. I'm fucking in."

William grinned and almost bounced in place. "Next month. We can get a truck by then—"

"Maybe back to Chicago," Travis said thoughtfully. "Wentz and Stump will cover for us. And Pete said we had jobs there if we wanted them."

William linked his arm through Travis's. "Come on, we've got business to take care of."

~~~~

 _Six months after_

"Great work again, Gerard," James said with a smile. "I don't know what we'd do without you."

Gerard blushed and shrugged. "As long as you don't mind the, ah, doodles—"

"No, no, I've told you, those are perfect! Our files are pretty bare, to tell you the truth. It saves us having to hunt up photographs of every member of every delegation."

The streets of Paris were crowded, especially right after sessions finished for the day. Although by this late date, most people had already given up on the Conference. Gerard automatically turned into his usual place. James followed, still talking.

"We're getting ready to pack all the files up and take them home. I know I've said this before, Gerard, and I don't know what your plans are for after the Peace is signed, but there's a job for you at the State Department any time you want it."

"I don't imagine you'll need much in the way of doodling recorders after the conference is over."

"We always need dependable people, Gerard. And there's still a lot of work to be done with France. Signing the Peace is just the beginning."

"I won't be staying in France much longer," Gerard said, joining the queue. "I have to go home for my brother's wedding. I never intended to stay so long after the war in the first place."

"If we hadn't found you and conscripted you into service, you mean?"

Gerard laughed. "No, it's been great, and I'm happy to help. And get paid for helping, obviously."

James laughed and patted his shoulder. "Well, think about it, will you? We'll probably need people for the League of Nations. You could—"

Gerard was distracted when someone slammed into him from behind, hard.

 _"Pardon,"_ Gerard snapped as he turned around.

"Oh," Frank said. "You're still here?"

 _"You're_ still here?" Gerard responded.

James was looking at them curiously. "I'm having dinner with House and General Armstrong tonight," he said slowly. "You're welcome to come along, Gerard. If you'd like."

"No thank you," Gerard said, speaking sweetly through his clenched jaw. "I'm going to stay here."

"Well, all right." He seemed reluctant to leave, and kept looking back and forth between Gerard and Frank, who hadn't left off staring at each other. "If you're sure. I'd better run," he said. "See you tomorrow, Gerard."

"See you tomorrow." Gerard smiled at James and ignored Frank until James was out the door. "Fucker," Gerard said, elbowing Frank sharply. "I thought you hated this game?"

Frank laughed so hard he staggered. "Your face!" he gasped. "That was DeWees, right?"

"Fuck you," Gerard said, but couldn't hold in the laughter anymore, either.

Frank groaned and wrapped his arms across his stomach. "I hope you meant by 'stay here' that you're getting food to go so we can go home already."

Gerard kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. People were already staring at them. "Maybe," he said.

"I'm exhausted," Frank complained.

"I don't know why," Gerard said. They took another shuffling step toward the brasserie bar. "All you do is talk all day, and that's what you do anyway."

"Like you don't," Frank replied. "It's different when you're not the one thinking of things to say. I'm like a puppet, just repeating what other people say and trying to remember what language I'm supposed to be speaking in."

Gerard pretended to be shocked. "You _think_ about what you're going to say before you say it? I had no idea—"

"Fuck off," Frank nearly collapsed in giggles, but managed to pull himself together enough to whisper, "You are in so much trouble when we get out of public. So much."

Gerard grinned and elbowed Frank anyway. "The things we do for our governments," he murmured. He stepped up to place an order, Frank chiming in at the most inconvenient times. They collected their covered plates and sauntered back to their tiny garrett room above St. Mich'. The Peace might be going to hell and he was less clear than ever on what the war had been about, but happiness was always free and easy in Paris in the springtime.


End file.
